


This Is Family

by SaraStarchild



Category: Hereditary (2018), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Author Obviously Loves Hereditary, Body Horror, Click, Cults, Demonic Possession, Gen, Horror, M/M, Mycroft Whump, Mycroft Worries, Mycroft is a mess, POV Third Person Limited, Poor Mycroft, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Psychological Horror, Retelling, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock is a Mess, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraStarchild/pseuds/SaraStarchild
Summary: When the Holmes family's secretive mother and matriarch, Ellen Holmes, passes away, the family she leaves behind – father Martin, sons Mycroft and Sherlock, and daughter Eurus – begins to unravel cryptic and increasingly terrifying secrets about their ancestry. The more they discover, the more they find themselves trying to outrun the sinister fate they seem to have inherited.This is, pretty much, a word-for-word retelling of the 2018 Ari Aster film, Hereditary, with Mycroft playing the role of Annie, Sherlock as Peter, and Eurus as Charlie. John Watson, Irene Adler, and others also make appearances.This started because I thought Peter looked KIND OF like a teenage Sherlock.PLEASE watch Hereditary before reading this. If you haven't watched Hereditary and don't plan on it, don't read this fic. The movie deserves to be seen and this fic could never do it justice. I adore this movie and everything about it, and I sincerely hope that my love shines through in this fic.If Ari Aster or his people find this and hate it, I will take it down.
Relationships: Eurus Holmes & Mummy, Eurus Holmes & Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Eurus Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Holmes' Father & Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler & Mycroft Holmes, Mummy & Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes & Father, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes & Mummy, Sherlock Holmes & Mummy, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. ONE.

_Ellen Leigh Holmes, 58, passed away after a prolonged illness in her home on April 3rd, 2018._

_Beloved wife of Dr. Martin Holmes. Devoted and cherished mother of Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, and Eurus Holmes. She will be missed._

_Reposing at Kingstone Funeral Home, Friday 10am-12pm. Funeral Service to be held on Saturday, 10am. Burial will take place at Spring Blossom Cemetery._

* * *

From within Sherlock Holmes’ dreamless doze, he heard three knocks on his bedroom door, before his father decided to open it, releasing a sigh as he saw his son still asleep.

“Come on, Sherlock. Wake up,” Dr. Martin Holmes ordered, gently shaking his shoulder, tapping it. “Sherlock. Wake up,” he whispered again, and Sherlock finally opened his eyes, lifting his head mere inches off the pillow to acknowledge his father’s words.

“Here’s your suit,” Dr. Holmes went on, and Sherlock, eyes closed again and head back upon the pillow, could feel the weight of the suit being draped across his legs as his father walked away.

Sherlock counted the steps, until his father stopped, just before the door.

“Do you know if your sister slept in her room last night?”

Sherlock lifted his head again, eyes open and looking at his father, assessing his black suit.

“I dunno,” Sherlock replied, and closed his eyes again as his father turned back toward the door.

“Well. Come on, Sherlock. Get up,” he ordered for the last time, hand slamming against his doorframe as he passed by, the family dog, Redbeard, following closely behind.

* * *

As his one and only daughter was not in her bedroom, Dr. Holmes knew exactly where she would be. He strode outside, past the car (where his eldest child, Mycroft Holmes, was patiently waiting for his siblings and father to join him), and to the treehouse he himself had built for his children nearly two decades ago. He had originally built it for Mycroft, but as time went on it got passed down as each child grew out of it –

First Mycroft,

then Sherlock,

then –

“Oh, Eurus. For God’s sake, come on!” Dr. Holmes groaned, exasperated, slightly out of breath after ascending the ladder of the treehouse and poking his head through the door in the floor to find his daughter, sleeping on a mat, with not one blanket or space heater in sight. He slammed his hand down on the wooden floor as he spoke, and Eurus jumped up, pink in the face from the cold, hastily securing the loose cover on a cardboard box as she awoke. “It was freezing last night!” he exclaimed. “That’s how you get pneumonia.”

“That’s okay,” Eurus replied, her voice determined, as if she knew that there was no way she was going to fall ill.

“Okay, come on. Let’s go, we’re late. Your brother’s in the car already,” he said, climbing back down the ladder before the girl could ask which of her brothers he was referring to.

It didn’t matter, anyway. He was sure she knew which one.

* * *

Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time he was in a church, but there he was, looking at a seemingly larger-than-life picture of his mother, climbing up the steps to the podium, standing before a larger crowd than expected, all wearing black and sitting in the pews. He laid out the notepad he had written his speech upon the night before, and cleared his throat.

“Um…It’s heartening to see so many…strange new faces here today,” he started, which was not part of the script he had written for himself, but instead an observation he had made just that morning. “Um. I know my mother would be very touched and probably a little suspicious –” he chuckled softly, but when no one joined in, he went on. “– um, to see this turnout. So.” He then looked down to his papers, and read the speech he prepared. One that his father didn’t necessarily agree with, but it was how Mycroft saw her, and that’s what mattered at these things, wasn’t it? Recalling memories and points of view of the deceased?

“My mother was a very secretive and private woman. She had private rituals, private friends, private anxieties. It honestly feels like a betrayal just to be standing here talking about her,” he glanced up, scanning the room, before continuing. “She was a very difficult woman to read. If you ever thought you knew what was going on with her, and god forbid you tried to confront that…” He stopped himself before continuing, making a single apologetic glance at his father before continuing on, skipping ahead to the next paragraph. “But when her life was unpolluted, she could be the sweetest, warmest, most loving person in the world. She was also incredibly stubborn, which maybe explains me, and my siblings.”

As he spoke the last few words, he heard the low click of someone’s tongue in the audience before him, and he knew exactly whom made the noise. He looked up for a moment, glancing at his sister, as she sat in the front row of pews, scribbling on her sketch pad. She clicked again, which Mycroft tried to ignore as he went on.

“You could always count on her to always have the answer.”

_Click._

“And if she ever _was_ mistaken, well, that was your opinion –”

_Click._

“– and you would be…”

He glanced up again, just in time to watch his father slowly close Eurus’ sketchbook, bringing his daughter into the present moment, where she had to focus on keeping her vocal tics at bay.

“…You would be wrong.”

* * *

Eurus Holmes hated this funeral. There were too many strange people (some of which smiled at her for no discernable reason), she had to sit down and listen to her brother and her father speak of her mother (and no one would allow her to draw, forcing her to pay attention), and her dress was too slim (thankfully, her father had allowed her to wear a black hoodie over it). The worst part, however, was seeing her mother laid out in her coffin. It was weird, seeing someone who was once so full of life there, pale and unmoving, almost like she was asleep, except she couldn’t breathe. Of course, Eurus had seen dead animals before, but this was so shockingly different.

And yet, the girl didn’t cry.

Instead, she just watched as others did, or as others watched _her_ , waiting for her to cry. She watched as each guest approached her mother’s coffin, praying over her or whispering in her unhearing ear or laying a hand on the coffin itself. One woman, looking around to make sure no one was paying attention (while overlooking Eurus), took a vial out of her pocketbook, swiped a bit of the liquid on her finger, and dabbed her mother’s lips with her finger.

Intrigued, Eurus took out a candy bar from her hoodie’s pocket, and began to eat as she thought of what the woman could have been doing to her mother. To anyone who didn’t know her, they’d think that it was weird for her to be eating a chocolate bar at a time like this, but her brothers knew (and she knew that her brothers knew) that if she was eating something sweet, it meant she was deep in thought. The sugar jogged her brain, she said, and Mycroft agreed. Sherlock, however, barely ever ate anything, whether he wanted to think or not.

Before she could get very far, however, a hand gripped her shoulder.

“There aren’t nuts in that, are there?” her father asked lowly, his mouth next to her ear, and Eurus quickly shook her head.

“No, Daddy.”

“Good,” he replied, turning her away from the coffin and toward the nearest exit, where Mycroft and Sherlock were waiting for them.

“Does that have nuts?” Mycroft asked, upon seeing his sister’s snack. “Because we don’t have the EpiPen.”

“I know; it doesn’t,” their father replied, and the family of four finally exited the room, leaving their fifth member behind.


	2. TWO.

“Hello, Redbeard! Good dog,” Dr. Holmes exclaimed as the family entered the house, the dog bounding over to meet them. He pet the dog before Sherlock crouched down, rubbing the dog’s cheeks in greeting. “Shoes off, everybody. Eurus, shoes off,” he repeated, and Eurus, already halfway up the stairs, stopped and made her way back down to comply.

Mycroft, however, did not immediately untie his shoes and line them up by the door like he normally would have. Instead, he stood in the hall, his shoes on the carpet, caught off guard. The house didn’t feel different when their mother died, or the days that immediately followed, but now, now that Mrs. Holmes was in the ground…

“It does feel weird,” Mycroft admitted quietly, turning to his father as Eurus climbed up the stairs again, Sherlock following closely behind, off to their respective rooms.

“Yeah,” his father agreed, softly.

“Should I be sadder?” Mycroft whispered, and then quickly looked behind him, making sure Sherlock and Eurus were completely out of earshot. Sherlock was still ascending the stairs, but it didn’t seem like he had heard anything.

“You should be whatever you are,” Dr. Holmes replied. “It’ll come.”

* * *

Mycroft never imagined that he would be working in the art department. He always imagined himself writing papers, doing studies, following in his father’s footsteps and becoming a therapist or an actual doctor, or working for the government. But then he got a miniature trainset for his birthday one year, and everything changed. He loved the thing, but it wasn’t the trains that pulled him in. What he really loved about it was seeing the world from such a neutral point of view. He loved it so much, he started making his own miniatures, starting with his classroom, then his bedroom, and then the rest of the house. At his mother’s suggestion, he submitted his work to the Asher Gallery, and they offered him a three-month spot for his work.

He was painting the heads of one of the figurines when there was a knock on his bedroom door. Mycroft didn’t even look up as his father opened the door, holding a glass of white wine.

“Hey, kiddo, how’s it going?” he asked, and Mycroft shrugged.

“Just working,” he replied. “Taking a break from avoiding the show.”

His father glanced at one of his show pieces – the preschool each of the Holmes children went to.

“So, you still toiling away at the hospice?” he asked, stepping forward, checking out the hospital scene from over Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft had started the scene once his mother went into hospice care, but it never really seemed right, even after her death.

“Yeah, between this and the preschool.”

In all honesty, the preschool was far too colorful and cheery for Mycroft to work on, today. The hospice, with its harsh lights and white walls, was where Mycroft’s mood lied.

“So, what’s our deadline now? Seven months?”

“Six and a half.”

“Ooh, coming up,” his father teased, and Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Any ideas for titles?” he asked, changing the subject, and Mycroft shrugged.

“I’ll figure something out.”

“I know you will,” he replied, touching Mycroft’s shoulder as he turned away. “Just remember to sleep every now and then, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” Mycroft said, nodding as he went back to work.

That night, Sherlock was in his bedroom, playing his violin. The music was slow, absent-minded, but that’s how it normally this time of day. But today, however, it seemed a little sadder than it usually was.

Sherlock only stopped when there was a knock on his door.

“Come in,” Sherlock called, and his father opened the door.

“Hey, goodnight kiddo,” he said quietly, and Sherlock placed his violin back into its case.

“Goodnight,” he replied.

Instead of closing the door, his father hovered for a moment, eyes on the floor, as if searching for whatever he wanted to say.

“Are you, uh…are you feeling okay about everything?” he asked, and Sherlock knew what he meant. He had tried to get Sherlock to open up about his mother for the past few days, and now was no exception.

“Yeah, fine.”

“A little sad?” his father asked, pushing for some sort of human emotion.

“Yes, of course, but…we knew it was coming, right?” Sherlock asked. “She was sick.”

“Yeah, I get it. I know,” his father agreed. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

“Love you,” Dr. Holmes said, closing the door, and Sherlock, as per usual these days, did not reply.

* * *

Meanwhile, Mycroft was sitting on Eurus’ bed, tucking her in for the night. He normally didn’t do this, but he knew better than anybody that she was having the hardest time with her mother’s death.

He glanced at the open sketchpad on her bed. On one page there were multiple close-up sketches of the same face, and the other page held a drawing of a sleeping woman in a box. He didn’t need to ask who it was, for he already knew, but he asked anyway.

“That’s Mummy?” he asked, ready for the answer.

But Eurus didn’t reply. Her hands fidgeted with the homemade rings on her fingers as she stared into a corner of her room, avoiding Mycroft’s eyes.

“You know you were her favorite, right?” he asked, after a few moments of silence. “Even when you were a little baby, she loved you so much.”

“She wanted me to be a boy,” Eurus finally mumbled.

“That’s just because she wanted to use my hand-me-downs again,” Mycroft replied easily.

“I still use your hand-me-downs.”

And it was true. She favored Mycroft’s old clothes; clothes that were worn ragged by both Mycroft and Sherlock, clothes that were stretched out and were miles too big for her small frame, anyway.

“You know, Mummy was a tomboy when she was growing up, too, did you know that? She hated dresses and dolls and pink…” he trailed off, watching his sister’s face as it contorted, deep in thought about other things.

“Who’s gonna take care of me?” she finally asked, quietly.

Mycroft scoffed in reply.

“You don’t think I’m gonna take care of you?”

“But when _you_ die,” Eurus nearly whispered, and Mycroft understood what she was just now realizing: everybody dies, and that includes their father, Mycroft, and even Sherlock. Since Eurus was the youngest Holmes, there was a chance that she would be the last remaining member of the family, decades from now.

Mycroft’s smile faded.

“Well, then… Daddy will take care of you. Or Sherlock.”

“I don’t want Sherlock to take care of me,” Eurus mumbled, rolling over onto her side, away from her brother.

“Understandable,” Mycroft mumbled. Yes, Sherlock was three years older than little Eurus, but Sherlock still had a lot more to learn about life before he could be tasked with taking care of anyone. “But I’m not planning on dying for a long time, so it’s alright.”

When Eurus didn’t reply, Mycroft sighed, placing his hand on her arm.

“You never cried as a baby. You know that?” he asked. He was seven when Sherlock was born, and twelve when Eurus was born, so he remembered both of their infant years well. Sherlock was a fussy baby, crying and whining at every opportunity. Eurus, however… “Did you feel like you wanted to cry, today? You think it might feel like a relief?” he asked quietly, but Eurus didn’t speak, or even move, in reply.

He leaned over to kiss his sister’s head, but something on Eurus’ wall caught his eye. Behind her bed, just by the curtain, was a little carving on the wall, with what looked like a ballpoint pen with just a little bit of pressure –

SATONY

There weren’t many words that Mycroft didn’t know the meaning of, but this was one of them. He had half a mind to reprimand Eurus for writing on her bedroom wall, but he didn’t have the energy tonight, not after the day’s events. So, he finally kissed his sister’s head and rubbed the arm of the wooly pajamas she was wearing.

“Goodnight, Eurus,” he murmured, getting off of her bed and turning out her lights, not pausing or waiting for a response. He knew he wouldn’t get one.

* * *

Mycroft passed by his parents’ bedroom, but doubled back when he realized that the room was empty, his father neglecting to turn off the light on his way out. His hand hovered over the light switch, when a pile of cardboard boxes caught his eye, all labeled things like MUM’S THINGS, MUM’S CLOTHES, and MUM’S BOOKS in his father’s handwriting.

Despite his better judgement, Mycroft wandered into the room, to the boxes.

He lifted the flaps of the first box, and pulled out the first item on top of his mother’s belongings: a heavy faux leather photo album, with _Memories_ stamped on the cover in gold. He opened to the earliest pages, revealing baby and childhood pictures.

First of Mycroft, in cribs and walkers and high chairs and onesies, dressed up in Halloween costumes and winning spelling bees;

Then Sherlock in the same cribs and walkers and high chairs and onesies, while Mycroft’s photos turned into snapshots of his face in an array of expressions that ranged from a neutral, uncaring expression, to him outright glaring at the camera in some photos. He remembered these photos, his mother begging him to smile, but he refused. In one of the earliest pictures, when Sherlock was merely an infant, he stuck his tongue out at his mother, and a smile crept onto Mycroft’s face as he saw that, yes, his mother had even included that image in the album.

And then there were the pictures of Eurus, so many pictures of baby Eurus that the photos documenting her infancy alone was more than double the amount of Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s put together, and while Sherlock’s baby pictures almost always included Mycroft in the background or holding him or standing next to him, Eurus’ barely included her brothers, only a handful of them including a stray hand of Mycroft’s or the toddler foot of Sherlock in the background, and pictures of the three of them together were few and far between.

Mycroft sighed, closing the album and putting it back into the box, and he was just about to close the box altogether when his fingers brushed another book.

Letting his prying eyes get the better of him, he lifted the flap to reveal a yellow hard-covered book entitled _Notes on Spiritualism_. He rolled his eyes; his mother always believed in ghosts and spirits and a life after death, but Mycroft never bought into the hype.

Yet he found himself opening the book anyway, just to the inside cover, where there was a piece of paper sticking out. He recognized the paper immediately – it was part of a personalized notepad she had ordered from a catalogue years ago, the top of the paper printed with her initials on top. What he wasn’t expecting, however, was his name – not Sherlock’s, not Eurus’, not even her husband’s – written on the paper:

_My darling, dear, brilliant Mycroft,_

_Forgive me all the things I could not tell you. Please don’t hate me and try not to despair your losses. You will see in the end that they were worth it._

_Our sacrifice will pale next to the rewards._

_Love, Mummy_

This was when Mycroft closed the book –

Shoved it back into the box –

Closed the box.

She didn’t know him; she knew nothing about him. She knew nothing about the world. How could this loss be worth anything? How could a death be in any way rewarding? It was this kind of thinking that made him dislike her – she spoke of fate and of sacrifices but then she turned around and died on them – leaving them with their “fate” and “sacrifices.” How was this fate? How was this a worthy sacrifice? And for what – to what end? But that was just it: there was none. There was no meaning behind her death; no reward, and no afterlife. Just illness, and suffering, and then nothing.

With tears in his eyes, Mycroft turned off the light to his father’s room, and was just about to leave when he saw –

His mother.

In the dim light from the hallway, he could see just her outline, from the within the darkest corner of the room. But he knew it was her – he could see her hair, her figure, her smile – everything that he hated and missed the most about his mother, all right there, as if she had never left.

But it wasn’t real.

Mycroft flipped on the lights again, and, just like that, she was gone.

Mycroft glanced around the room, unsure of what he was looking for, until he found it: a picture of his mother, breastfeeding baby Eurus, on his father’s dresser across the room, smiling straight at her firstborn child.

Fed up with his mother’s eyes watching him, Mycroft crossed the room, and turned the photo around, and finally left the room, turning off the lights and shutting the door behind him.


	3. THREE.

Eurus sat in her near-silent classroom, working on a miniature. Mycroft made miniatures out of clay and wires, making everything look as real as possible, but Eurus made miniatures out of found objects, like forks and spoons, empty travel cases, nuts and bolts and hot glue, and wires that Mycroft never ended up using. Eurus made creatures and beings that didn’t exist, letting her imagination run wild. When she had started, her mother fully supported her art, just as she did with Mycroft, which she was thankful for. Her mother even set up an Etsy page for her to sell her works, if she wanted to. She wasn’t sure why she was still making them, honestly, seeing as her mother worked the business end of the shop, but the miniatures were helping her cope with the loss of her mother, just as Mycroft seemed to be using his miniatures for.

“Are you done?” her teacher asked from behind her, and Eurus jumped in her seat, eyes widening.

The classroom wasn’t nearly silent because it was nearly empty – it was because her class was taking a test. But inspiration struck; Eurus couldn’t help that.

Her teacher just didn’t understand that.

“Almost,” Eurus mumbled. It was a lie, of course – Eurus hadn’t even glanced at her test.

“So, maybe we finish the toy _after_ the quiz,” her teacher suggested, and Eurus grimaced. It wasn’t a “toy,” it was art. “What do you think?” she asked, and Eurus slowly nodded.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” her teacher repeated, satisfied, flipping over Eurus’ blank test and placing her pencil upon it.

And then –

_THUMP!_

Everyone jumped in their seats, this time, apart from Eurus, as a pigeon flew into the window of the classroom. The class all started speaking at once, turning around to their friends and the teacher, throwing exclamations around:

“Oh my god!”

“What was that?!”

“Did you see it?!”

“Was that a pigeon?!”

“Ewww!”

Eurus, however, stayed silent, her eyes slowly drifting across the room, until they landed on her teacher’s desk.

Namely, the pair of scissors in the cup on her teacher’s desk.

* * *

“So, if we go by the rule that the hero is undone by his fatal flaw, what is Heracles’ flaw?”

John Watson had a nice ass. This wasn’t the first time Sherlock had the thought, but it certainly wouldn’t by the last, considering that he sat directly behind John, who was, in Sherlock’s opinion, the most attractive boy in his grade. He had a nice everything, honestly. Ass, hair, eyes, smile, hands –

In fact, Sherlock watched as John raised one of those nice hands, and spoke with his disabling voice:

“Arrogance.”

Sherlock would’ve paid John to call him arrogant, Sherlock thought idly.

“Okay. Why?” their teacher asked, and John spoke again, as Sherlock held his breath.

“Because he literally _refuses_ to look at all the signs that are _literally_ handed to him the entire play.”

Sherlock smirked. He was sure that one of those “literally”s was actually figurative, but, since it was John speaking, he didn’t care. If God or Jesus or Satan or Fate or whoever was out there (or none of those, just _somebody_ ) smiled down upon Sherlock long enough to allow John to give him the time of day, Sherlock would teach him the difference between literally and figuratively, Sherlock decided. And though John was perfect, that definitely wouldn’t be the only thing Sherlock taught John…

“Okay, interesting! So he thinks he has control,” their teacher went on, as Sherlock felt his phone vibrate from his pocket. “But let’s all remember, Sophocles wrote the oracle so that it was unconditional, meaning, Heracles never had any choice, right?”

But Sherlock was back to only half-listening to his teacher, now, as he pulled out his phone from his pocket and read the message from his best friend, Victor Trevor:

_Wanna smoke a bowl at break?_

Sherlock turned his head to glance at the seat diagonally behind him, where Victor was sitting. He gave him a subtle thumbs-up, and Victor nodded, smiling.

“So does that make it more tragic or less tragic than if he has a choice?”

“Less!” another boy, Philip Anderson, proclaimed.

“Okay. Why?”

“Because!” Anderson replied, and Sherlock rolled his eyes as he typed out a response to Victor:

_Yeah yeah sure - SH_

How the hell did an idiot like Philip Anderson get into AP English Literature? he wondered, until his teacher spoke again.

“Care to weigh in, Sherlock?” his teacher asked, and Sherlock raised his head.

“Um, about which part?” he asked, trying to pocket his phone as subtly as possible.

“I think it’s more tragic because if it’s all just inevitable, then that means that the characters have no hope,” a girl in his class, Molly Hooper, replied, saving Sherlock’s ass.

Sherlock had the thought to give a word of thanks to Molly after class, turning to glance at her and to watch Victor silently laugh at him, but then he turned back to see John Watson, almost completely turned around, staring at him. And suddenly, they were looking at each other, John’s eyes meeting Sherlock’s, and Sherlock’s heart raced.

Even though John was looking at Sherlock as if he was trying to figure out how the hell an idiot like Sherlock made it into AP English Literature, Sherlock Holmes was in love.

“They never had hope because they’re all just, like, hopeless,” Molly continued, and just like that, John turned around, and the moment was over, leaving Sherlock staring at the back of John’s head, mouth slightly agape, like exactly the idiot John thought he was. “They’re all like pawns in this horrible, hopeless machine.”

If Sherlock didn’t learn how to talk to John soon, he would be a pawn in the horrible, hopeless machine that was high school politics. John Watson was on the rugby team – not as popular as football, but nowhere near the level of unpopularity people like Sherlock and Victor were on: the stoners. But if he could just talk to John, _really_ talk to John, he could prove to him that he was more than just a guy who spaced out in class at the sight of John’s ass and couldn’t answer a question for shit. He could prove that he had a brain; that he was worth knowing, that he was a person that John would want to be around, that he was a person that John would _want_. He just needed an opportunity…

* * *

At least an hour later, during recess, Eurus found herself outside the window of her classroom, chewing on a candy bar as she stared where the dead pigeon laid motionless on a hedge, making a decision she had thought she had already made.

She looked around, making sure no one was watching, took out her teacher’s scissors from Mycroft’s old orange hoodie’s pocket, and methodically, surgically, cut the pigeon’s head off of its body. She then placed the head and the scissors back into her pocket, turning around, making sure no one saw her.

But someone did.

Across the street, a woman was standing by her car, watching Eurus.

Eurus took a bite of her candy bar, staring at the woman, trying to see if she was really looking at Eurus. She was probably someone’s mom, she was probably just looking to see if she could find her child –

But then she lifted her hand, almost like she was waving at Eurus.

And Eurus stared back.

* * *

Dr. Martin Holmes sat in the living room, reading over patient files, when Sherlock and Eurus returned home from school. He gave them a quick hello, reminding them to remove their shoes in the hall, but didn’t speak much beyond that. None of his kids were real conversationalists, but neither was he. Hell, his entire job was based around _listening,_ not necessarily speaking.

Eurus went straight up to her room, and Sherlock was not far behind, only pausing when the phone in the hallway rang. Without speaking a word, Sherlock slowly made his way back down to pick up the phone.

“Hello?” Sherlock said into the phone, then paused as the other person spoke. “Hey, Dad?” Sherlock called, walking into the living room, phone in hand. “It’s the cemetery,” he informed him, passing him the phone before going off to his room, passing by Mycroft on his way up.

“The cemetery? About what?” Mycroft asked, poking his head into the living room on his way through to the kitchen.

“Well, let me see,” Dr. Holmes replied, putting the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Doctor Holmes?” The woman on the other line asked.

“Yes.”

“Hi, my name is Anthea McAlister, from Kingston Funeral Home. I’m so sorry to bother you, but there’s been a reported disturbance at your wife’s burial site at Spring Blossom Cemetery. Our caretaker went out and took a look early this morning and it seems that your wife’s grave has been desecrated –”

“What does that mean? Desecrated?” Dr. Holmes asked, lowly.

“Sir, I’m very sorry to inform you that someone dug up your wife’s grave. There’s graffiti of some symbol on her headstone and…sir, your wife’s body is missing –” she started, trying to remain professional despite the horror she was spewing, but Dr. Holmes cut her off.

 _“What?_ But’s it’s only been a week.”

“I know, and again I send you my deepest condolences, but we do need you to come down to Kingston Funeral Home to assess the damages and talk about plans for whether or not you’d like to bury her there again once she is recovered –”

At that moment, Dr. Holmes could hear Mycroft closing the refrigerator door and making his way back through the hallway, so he sped up the conversation.

“Yes, okay, yes. Sure.”

“And the police are already notified and are working diligently to catch the perpetrator and find your –”

“All right. I understand, yes. Uh, why don’t I call you back?” he asked, quickly.

“Um, sure. Again I’m sorry for the disturbance, Doctor –”

“Yes, goodbye,” he said, taking the phone from his ear, and Mycroft spoke before he could even hang up the call.

“What was it?” he asked, and Dr. Holmes shrugged.

“Uh, just some billing crap,” he lied, and Mycroft nodded, seemingly buying it.

“Okay, well, I’m, uh…I’m gonna go see a movie,” he said, finally, and Dr. Holmes nodded.

“Okay, just don’t stay out too late.”

“I’m twenty-three, father,” Mycroft reminded him, beginning to walk away, and Dr. Holmes shrugged again.

“You’re still my son. Please be safe.”

“I will.”

* * *

Mycroft was not one to talk about his feelings, about anything, to anyone. Which is why he was confused and a little ashamed about the fact that he wanted to speak to someone – anyone – about his mother.

But definitely not his father. Sure, he was a licensed psychiatrist, but he was too close to the situation – too close to Mycroft – to give any solid support, beyond whatever fatherly bullshit he could spout. No, Mycroft needed someone removed from the situation, from the family.

Which is what landed him at the local Catholic school, where a grief counselling group was known to meet every Friday night in the gymnasium.

After sitting in the car for ten minutes, trying to convince himself this was a good idea, that it would help him in some fashion, he found himself entering the building, a full five minutes late, but luckily there were still two chairs available, so Mycroft took the one furthest from the man leading the group, and listened.

He listened to people he didn’t know talk about the loved ones they had lost, who supposedly knew the emotions Mycroft was trying to stifle better than anyone.

But he did not speak, until about an hour later, toward the end of the meeting.

“Now, we’ve set aside some time for any newcomers who might like to speak,” the man leading the meeting said, and his eyes landed on Mycroft as he spoke. “So…anyone, if it’s your first or second time with us, the floor is open,” he went on, looking away from Mycroft, but every now and again he glanced at him, again.

Apparently, Mycroft was the only newcomer there.

His hand, almost involuntarily, found his way to his mouth as the leader spoke, and nervously waved in the leader’s direction before he could stop himself.

“Yes, would you like to…?” he started, but Mycroft quickly shook his head.

“Maybe not,” he replied quickly, trying to backpedal.

“Okay. No pressure,” the leader said, and the awkward silence that ensued was nearly deafening for Mycroft. He glanced around, and found that nearly everyone’s eyes were on him, now.

They were waiting for him to speak, all of them. He hated this, coming here was a mistake –

“My name is Mycroft,” he said, finally, forcing the words out of his mouth, if only to break the silence, and the rest of the group members said hello to him, almost in unison, just like every alcoholic anonymous meeting Mycroft had ever seen in any piece of media.

“My mum died a week ago, so I’m just here for…trying it, I suppose. I have a lot of resistance to things like this. Talking about feelings and all that… But I’ve heard it helps, so… My mum was sick, and she wasn’t all together there at the end. And before that, her and I never saw eye-to-eye, so it really wasn’t a huge blow. But I…I did…love her. And she didn’t have an easy life. She had DID, which became extreme at the end. And dementia, early onset – her symptoms started when I was about fourteen. And one of her brothers died when I was a baby, from starvation, um, because he had psychotic depression, and he starved himself, which I’m sure was just as pleasant as it sounds. And then there’s me. When I was six, I told my guidance counselor at school that mummy was trying to put people in my head, and so DCF was called on my family. Nothing incriminating was found and so I was diagnosed with childhood schizophrenia. The diagnosis was later retracted, but she…she took it really hard. All of it, the DCF investigation, the diagnosis, all of it. So. That was my mum’s life. And my life.”

He finally looked back at the group from the middle distance he was previously staring at, to find everyone staring back at him. The room was so quiet he could hear a pin drop.

So, he kept going.

“And then she gave birth to my brother. I was still obsessed with this idea that she was trying to put people in me – not just me, now, but the both of us – so I refused to let her near him. Imagine that, a seven year old boy trying to keep an infant from their mother; I don’t know how our father survived. Three years later, she had a daughter, our sister, and she didn’t seem to try to put people inside of her, so I let her have her, and she immediately stabbed her hooks into her. She was…completely manipulative. And I just…I felt guilty again. I felt guilty again –” he cut himself off, trying to hold back a sob that was already coming. “– when she got sick, not that she was really even my mum, at the end, and not that she would _ever_ feel guilty about _anything_ …” he drifted off, angry. She had so much to be guilty for, but no apology ever passed by her lips, ever. “And…I just don’t want to put any more stress on the rest of my family. I’m not even really sure they could…could give me that support. Or understand, any of it… And I just…I just feel like… I just feel like it’s all ruined,” he said, finally letting his tears fall. “And then I realize that _I_ am to blame. Or, not that I’m _to_ blame, but I am _blamed!_ I am…”

“And what do you think you feel blamed for?” the leader of the group asked, and Mycroft shrugged, shaking his head.

“I don’t know. And I don’t say that often. I wish I knew who blamed me or why I’m being blamed. I just…I don’t know.”


	4. FOUR.

Sherlock could not focus, tonight. He had promised his father he was going to start looking at colleges and potential careers, and to be fair he _had_ started looking at these things, as evident by the window open on his computer, displaying a website that was supposedly all about the subject.

But then Sherlock started thinking about John Watson, and suddenly he had a whole other window open on his computer to John’s Facebook page. He had been scrolling through John’s pictures – tagged, uploaded, any picture that involved John, Sherlock had seen it – trying to figure out if John was interested in anyone. So far, the jury was still out on the subject. Sherlock had spent a whole twenty minutes with his mouse hovering over the “send friend request” button on the corner of the screen, weighing the pros and cons, trying to figure out how rejected he would feel if John happened to reject the request, or, perhaps even worse, leave Sherlock in limbo for weeks on end, but then he realized that he was supposed to be doing something productive.

So, in typical Sherlock fashion, he opened his window just a crack, and lit up his bong. No one in the Holmes family – except maybe Mycroft – knew about the bong and the pot, but Sherlock was convinced it helped him focus.

He took a hit before his phone started vibrating, and Sherlock picked it up, finding a text from Victor:

_Holy shit. Huge party tomorrow at Aaron’s house. Bring your dick!_

Sherlock stared at the last three words on his screen, tilting his head to the side. Bring your dick was Victor’s universal term for getting laid being imminent and practically unavoidable; it was almost like a magic trick, at this point. Sherlock had heard the term before many times, but he had never said these words in his direction, until now. And Victor _knew_ that Sherlock only had his eyes on one person – the one person who would never, ever see him –

_Bring your dick!_

Slowly, Sherlock lifted his eyes from the screen of his phone, and his eyes landed on the screen of his computer across the room, where John Watson’s Facebook pictures were still at the forefront of his screen.

A smile crept onto Sherlock’s face.

Oh yeah, he was really focusing, now…

* * *

The next day, Eurus Holmes sat alone at the desk in her room. The desk was in a state of disarray, though that wasn’t unusual for Eurus. Miniatures, in various states of completion, sticks and found objects and different tools, Eurus’ drawing pad, one of Mycroft’s unused dioramas, and a newly-opened bag of M&Ms littered the space, but that was fine with the girl; it was her work station, and it was hers.

She had been working for hours, not even realizing, and as she worked, she clicked.

_Click._

It was a tic she had started when she was young – very young, almost too young to remember. It wasn’t triggered by anything, like anxiety or overstimulation, but just occurred whenever Eurus was deep in thought; half the time she didn’t even realize she was doing it. Her father always hated the tics, and tried to stifle them in the beginning, but he eased off in later years, especially so since her mother died. Mycroft only brought it to her attention when they needed to be quiet (like in a theater or a library), while Sherlock had never said a word about it (although Eurus knew it annoyed him).

_Click._

Her mother, however, loved her tic. When Eurus was younger, when she got teased for her clicking, her mother sat her down, and informed her that her clicks made her unique. Eurus held onto that, even more so after she died.

_Click._

And then –

A glint of light swept across her desk.

Eurus stopped clicking, an M&M still half-chewed in her mouth. It was almost like a reflection of the sun bouncing off of a car going by, but…different.

Eurus stood up, wandering over to the window over her bed, standing on the bed to look out at...smoke?

* * *

It was a late night for Dr. Holmes, so Mycroft was in charge of making dinner for the Holmes family. It was while he was preparing the food that the email from the Asher Gallery came in: _Hi Mycroft! Don't want to bother you, but we’d love to see where we are (progress-wise). Could you possibly send us pics of your work in its current stage? I promise we won't judge!! ;) - Silvia_

Mycroft, a person who was normally on top of things, prepared for anything, confident of his work, was not any of this things; he hadn’t been since his mother died. He knew she was just checking in, but he couldn’t help but feel like she was calling his bluff, a bluff that he did not make.

And he was in no way ready for it.

* * *

Eurus walked through her backyard, the beginning of winter biting at her skin. She didn’t bother putting on a coat, or winter boots, or anything she should’ve grabbed before going outside.

She just brought the pigeon head.

The head was all she needed as she walked, staring straight ahead, not even noticing the trail of footsteps that was made in the ground, the path that she was following…

* * *

While dinner was in the oven, Mycroft went back upstairs, trying to throw something together to call progress for the Asher Gallery, making a list of supplies he still needed to get from the store –

_Knock, knock._

Mycroft didn’t even need to look up. He knew that knock – it was Sherlock, and he instantly regretted not closing the door to his room.

But Sherlock still would’ve knocked, even if it was clear that Mycroft did not want to be disturbed, because that’s just who his brother was.

“Hey, uh...do you think I could borrow your car tonight?” Sherlock asked, leaning up against the door jamb, hands in his pockets.

Again, Mycroft didn’t even need to look up to know any of this. Instead, he continued adjusting and putting together his model as he spoke.

“Why?” he asked. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, just like a…school barbecue thing...”

This was a lie, and Mycroft knew it, and Sherlock probably knew that he knew it. Mycroft never let anyone touch his car; he was extremely strict about that, and Sherlock was more than aware. There had to be another reason, something Sherlock deemed important.

“Oh, so you’re not having dinner with us?” Mycroft asked.

“No, I was still gonna eat here –” Sherlock started.

“Well, you can eat there if you want. I just wish you had told me earlier –” If Mycroft _had_ known, he wouldn’t have made so much – but that was fine, their father could use Sherlock’s serving for lunch tomorrow –

“No, no, no. I’m gonna eat here,” Sherlock assured his brother. “I’d just be going there to hang out.”

Mycroft’s eyes flicked to Sherlock’s for a moment.

“No drinking?” he asked.

“Nobody’s old enough to even get drinks if they wanted to,” Sherlock replied, as if the answer was that simple; like every single high school student at that “barbeque” abided by the law.

“Well, that’s a crock. I’m just asking if _you’re_ drinking,” Mycroft rephrased.

“Well, I just answered no,” Sherlock said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice that Mycroft knew he was trying to keep buried. He wanted something out of his brother; he had to be nice.

“Are you going to take your sister?” Mycroft asked, calling his brother’s bluff. If it truly was a school thing, Eurus would be more than allowed to go – obligated, even.

He waited a moment for his brother to cave.

“Uh…does she want to go?” Sherlock asked.

“Uh…have you asked her?” Mycroft asked in return, pursing his lips as he gave the hint to Sherlock that he should go ask her, only with his eyes.

Sherlock nodded slightly and stepped away from the doorway. Mycroft could hear him calling for Eurus, and Mycroft expected to listen in on the entire conversation, until Sherlock quickly returned back to the doorway of Mycroft’s room.

“She’s not in her room.”


	5. FIVE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: The R Slur is present in this chapter, as it is in the movie. Whoooooo~

Eurus continued to walk, further and further away from the house, walking toward the smoke. She stopped, looked in the near distance. She saw a fire. She saw a silhouette, dressed in white. What was it? Why was it here? _Who_ was it? Was it…?

_Click._

“EURUS!” Mycroft roared behind her, and Eurus jumped, spinning around to face her brother as he caught up to her, grabbing her and leading her back to the house.

“I mean, what are you doing?! Leaving the house barefoot? Are you some kind of idiot? You can’t just roam around in no shoes and no coat!”

Finally, Eurus yanked herself away from Mycroft, the words escaping her lips before she even realized she was saying them:

“I want Mummy,” she muttered, and even though it was under her breath, Mycroft still heard the girl. He spun around to face her.

“Oh, what? You’re angry with me, now?” he asked, rolling his eyes and taking her by the arm again, too furious to say another word until he finally brought Eurus into the house. Mycroft stood at the door, kicking off his shoes as Eurus tried to make her escape. “You are going to this – hey, socks off!” he called, and Eurus quickly turned around to comply as her brother spoke. “You’re going to this party with Sherlock.”

“What party?” Eurus shot back.

“Some school hangout with other kids,” Mycroft replied, wanting to make it sound more appealing, but too exasperated to even try.

Eurus stood, considering it for a moment.

“That’s okay,” she said, seemingly have made her mind against going.

“No, it’s not okay,” he said, now completely having lost all of his harshness and just trying to be the authoritative sibling he was, at this point. “You’re going,” he decided, just as Sherlock entered the hall.

“Why?” Eurus asked.

“Because, it’ll be fun,” Mycroft said, too exhausted and stressed to sound like it was going to be anything anywhere near “fun.” “You can hang out with other kids.”

“With who?”

“With your – with your brother!” Mycroft exclaimed, gesturing to Sherlock behind her. “With other kids!”

Eurus looked back at Sherlock. It seemed as if they had started to drift away, after their mum died and Mycroft moved back in. Sherlock became absorbed by…whatever the hell he does, whether it be “crime solving” or smoking pot, and Eurus coped in her own way, focusing on her art.

Sherlock shrugged, not exactly welcoming, but not exactly _un_ welcoming, either. He was leaving it up to Eurus, and Mycroft tried to do the same.

Finally, their sister spoke:

“...Fine.”

“Great! You’re going!” Mycroft exclaimed, throwing his arms into the air in exasperation as he looked to his little brother. “She’s going with you.”

“Great,” Sherlock said, completely passive about the turn of events.

“Now this _really_ means no drinking,” Mycroft warned, pointing at Sherlock, ensuring that Sherlock knew exactly what was at stake.

“Yeah, I _really_ wasn’t going to,” Sherlock assured him, mimicking his tone, but that was fine.

Both of his siblings were going to the party, and their father would be home late from work.

Mycroft had the night completely to himself to work.

* * *

Sherlock was not expecting this. Yes, he got his brother’s car, and that in itself was a miracle comparable to the virgin birth of Jesus, but he also got his sister Eurus to watch over for the night. At a high school party, where booze and drugs and sex were passed around and on display as if it was never taboo.

_Click._

Not to mention the fact that John Watson would be there, and Sherlock had _planned_ on trying to talk to him, until now. How the hell could Sherlock even _attempt_ to hook up with the guy if his thirteen-year-old sister was tagging along? He almost thought to text Victor, telling him that Mycroft wouldn’t let him take the car, but then Mycroft would ask questions about how ‘if it’s a school barbeque then why can’t Eurus go?’, and then Sherlock would have to either lie his way out of it or try to explain everything to a man who never had a crush on anyone in his life. It didn’t help that Victor had said those three little words that worked like magic, and _John Watson_ would be there, and they would be outside of the school setting with the cliques and the teachers to interrupt them so they could _talk_ and _maybe,_ just _maybe –_

_Click._

Sherlock glanced into the rearview mirror, watching his sister as she looked out the window, silently cursing his brother. He didn’t not like Eurus, of course. She was his little sister; he loved her. This was just not the night or the party he wanted her to be with him for.

_Click._

He returned his eyes to the road. Sherlock would have to figure something out.

* * *

Aaron’s party was in full swing by the time Sherlock and Eurus arrived. People were everywhere, everyone was on their second or third drink at least, some girls had drunkenly decided that they needed to bake a cake, and the music was so loud Sherlock was surprised the neighbors hadn’t called the cops by now.

But then he saw him, and all of those thoughts went away.

John Watson, sitting on a couch in the middle of the room, his hands wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle that Sherlock would kill to replace with literally any part of his body. Best of all, he was alone.

As if John could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, he looked up, and their eyes met.

It was perfect. Something out of a movie, really.

It was so perfect, in fact, that Sherlock stepped forward, walking through the crowd of people between them as he crossed the room, until he was right in front of John.

“Whoa, hi,” Sherlock said, as if he had no idea that John would be there, existing there, in that house, at that moment, and instantly wanted to kick himself. He sounded like an idiot.

“Oh, hi,” John said in reply, smiling pleasantly up at Sherlock.

“How’s the party?” Sherlock asked, and a part of him wanted to throttle himself. _How’s the party?_ He was _there!_ He knew exactly how it was!

“Why? You wanna know if you should come?” John asked, a hint of a smirk playing at his face, playing along. Sherlock wanted to kiss him right there. He thought he was making a joke and wasn’t just an idiot – he didn’t think Sherlock was an idiot!

“Uh, yeah,” Sherlock replied, trying to play it cool, going along with his own joke that he himself didn’t even know he had made. “What do you think?”

John shrugged, looking around at the party before him.

“Either way,” he decided, and Sherlock internally panicked. The conversation was ending – he could see it closing before it even began.

And so, Sherlock went with what he knew in the attempt to open it back up again.

“Hey, do you happen to smoke at all?” he asked, barely able to pull his eyes away from John as he searched the pocket of his hoodie for the bag he had brought with him. He pulled it out to show him. “I have really good weed.”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, and Sherlock briefly considered moving out of the state to avoid any more embarrassment. Evacuating the state quickly turned into fleeing the country as John stood up, looking like he was going to leave Sherlock alone holding a bag of weed in the middle of the party just to give Sherlock the hint that he was in no way interested, but then John turned around.

“The other room has a bong,” John informed him, beginning to lead him out of the living room.

“Sick,” Sherlock replied, following closely behind.

Victor was right. Holy shit, Victor was right! If only Sherlock had known it would be this easy to –

_Click._

Sherlock spun around, suddenly remembering his sister existed. Eurus had been practically on his heels since they entered Aaron’s house, fooling around with one of her miniatures, but he had completely forgotten about her the moment he laid eyes on John. He had to get her off his tail or this would never work.

“Do you want to wait out here for a second?” Sherlock asked, but her answer was quick and immediate.

“No.”

“Eurus, please, just –” he started, glancing ahead, where John was waiting for him a few feet away. John was waiting for him, this was a good sign. He bent down a bit, making sure he was at Eurus’ level before he went on. “It’ll be two minutes and then we can hang out,” he promised. Eurus wouldn’t keep track of the time, and if she did, he’d make another excuse – it would be fine. Two minutes, or more, just to get his foot in the door with John. That’s all he needed. “You can draw –” he tried, but Eurus quickly shook her head in protest. “Please, Eurus. I’m –” he stood up to full height, looking around, looking for anything to distract the girl for two minutes or more, until his laid his eyes on – “Oh, shit, look! They’re giving out chocolate cake!” he exclaimed, pointing at the freshly-baked cake on the counter, the drunken girls cutting piece after piece of the cake to share.

“Not to everyone,” Eurus informed him, but her eyes were still glued to the pastry.

“Yes, to everyone! It’s a party,” Sherlock reminded her, trying to make it sound as great as he could.

“I don’t know anyone –” Eurus began to protest.

“Nobody does! Just walk over and stand there and they’ll give you a piece,” Sherlock ordered, and began to step away from his sister. “Hurry up! They’re gonna run out! Come on, Eurus,” he said, and finally turned around to follow John Watson.

Eurus would surely be distracted, now. If it was one thing he knew about his sister, it was that she couldn’t resist a good treat.

He followed John down the hallway and up a flight of stairs, excited and anxious all at once, until John spoke as he rounded the corner into one of the rooms.

“Hey, guys. Sherlock has weed,” John announced as he stepped into the bedroom, and Sherlock followed him to find two guys watching a black-and-white movie on a laptop on the bed.

Of fucking course.

* * *

The music was too loud. That was the first thing Eurus noticed about this place. The second thing she noticed was the people – so many people. It was like the halls of school, only worse, seeing as _these_ people had nowhere to go. Everyone was holding red plastic cups or beer bottles and they were all laughing or talking or shouting or laughing and it was all too loud. But she stayed by her brother’s side, until he decided to leave her to chase after one of his friends from school with the promise of some weeds, whatever that meant.

But, the good news – the only good news to come out of this whole thing – was that Eurus now had a warm, moist, delicious piece of chocolate cake.

And that made everything mostly okay, even if it did make her extremely thirsty.

* * *

“That was your sister downstairs?” John asked as he watched Sherlock pack the weed into the bowl of the bong, separated by the legs of one of the other boys. Both of the boys were from John’s rugby team; one with his hair cropped almost to his scalp and the other with blonde hair long enough to make up for it.

“Yeah, Eurus,” Sherlock replied as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

“Is your sister hot?” the short-haired boy asked as Sherlock pulled out his phone. Mycroft was calling, for some stupid reason. Sherlock returned the phone to his pocket.

He was about to open his mouth, inform the boy that Eurus was only thirteen, and that even if she _was_ around his age, Sherlock would never let him touch her, but John spoke instead, and Sherlock was suddenly focused on him.

“I actually saw her drawing me last week,” he announced, nonchalant.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. She made me look retarded,” John informed him.

Of course she did.

“Yeah. That’s Eurus,” Sherlock muttered.

* * *

Two minutes. That’s what Sherlock had said. Two minutes.

However, it had been at least ten minutes, now; seven at least since she had eaten the cake. It had been delicious, chocolatey with a hint of something that Eurus hadn’t eaten before, and even though part of Eurus wanted another piece, the rest of the cake was now long gone. Eurus settled on the couch where Sherlock had found his friend and tried to work on a miniature, but her thirst had gotten the better of her, so she took one of the red plastic cups and filled it with water.

She drained it within seconds, and filled it up again.

It wasn’t helping.

It was getting harder to breathe.

* * *

Sherlock put his lips around the bong and lit up, taking a deep breath, knowing that John was watching him. It was good that John was still here, but Sherlock seriously needed to take the edge off of his nerves, especially if he was going to try to get John by himself, instead of in a bedroom with two of his rugby buddies. He just had to relax –

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up at the sound of his name, finding –

“Eurus,” he said, coughing as the bong smoke started to find its way out of Sherlock’s nose and mouth. On instinct, he hid the bong behind his legs. His sister had never seen him like this – she probably had no idea what he was even hiding or what he was even smoking. “What’s up?” he asked, still coughing, finally looking up at her.

The girl stood in the doorway of the room, looking like she was fighting between telling him whatever she needed to tell him and walking away, looking like she was in trouble – like she needed help. He could hear her breathing from across the room – wheezing more like – like she had just ran a marathon in order to reach him. Something was wrong, something that Sherlock couldn’t put his finger on.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock finally asked.

“It’s hard to breathe,” Eurus finally replied, sounding like it was a struggle to get each word out.

A thought occurred to Sherlock – the worst case scenario. No. Oh god no, not tonight, not now, not here, not while he was high –

“What do you mean?” he asked, hoping that it was just a mistake, hoping she just didn’t feel good, hoping that it wasn’t what he was already positive that it was –

Even across the dimly lit room, Sherlock could see the tears in his sister’s eyes.

“I think my throat’s getting bigger.”

* * *

Seconds later, Sherlock was running out of the house, his little sister in his arms, hearing Eurus gasping in his ear, struggling to breathe as he put her in the backseat of Mycroft’s car. He quickly raced to the driver’s side himself as soon as he shut her door, throwing himself into the car himself and starting it up.

There was no time to call 911, no time to wait for an ambulance. High or not, he had to drive her to the hospital, and he had to get her there _now._

Sherlock raced them down the empty highway, the car nothing but headlights in the black night. The speedometer needle passed sixty-five miles per hour, and Sherlock heard his sister thrashing in the backseat, gasping for air, crying in pain.

“It’s okay, Eurus! We’re almost at the hospital, okay?!” Sherlock shouted.

They were quickly pushing seventy miles per hour, but Sherlock kept his foot on the gas. He was prepared to go eighty, ninety – any speed was necessary. He blinked the tears back from his eyes. He had to get Eurus to the hospital – he had to.

* * *

In the backseat, Eurus rolled down the window, sticking her head out as far as she dared, gulping the fresh air in hopes that it would help her breathe.

“Eurus!” Sherlock called from within the car, and then –

* * *

The headlights illuminated a deer carcass in the middle of their path, too large to run over, and Sherlock swerved the car to avoid it. The passenger’s side of the car drove off the road as Sherlock struggled to keep control of the car as he sped between the carcass and a telephone pole, but then –

He heard a thud, and a snap, and Sherlock slammed on the brakes, trying to keep control of the wheel.

The car squealed to a halt, plunging the world in a silence that was too quiet to be real.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the road, his hands shaking as they gripped the steering wheel before him. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He could hear his breathing, rapid with panic.

His eyes slowly drifted up to the rear-view mirror, but he snapped back forward before he could see the backseat. He couldn’t see the backseat.

But it was okay. Eurus wasn’t gasping for air anymore. She wasn’t crying anymore. He didn’t need to see her to know that.

A tear trickled down his face, and part of him wasn’t sure exactly why. Because everything was fine.

“You okay,” he mumbled, and he wasn’t entirely sure who he was speaking to, whether it was himself or his sister. But either way they were okay. They were both okay. “Okay,” Sherlock mumbled again, and he slowly removed his foot off the brake pedal.


	6. SIX.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter but I don't make the rules; I used the scenes on the Hereditary DVD to split up the chapters. ^^'

They did not go to the hospital. They didn’t need to – Eurus was fine, now.

So they went home.

They went home, and Sherlock went inside the house, not even chancing a glance at the backseat. He didn’t need to, because Eurus was fine.

Sherlock heard Mycroft note that they were home, but he did not speak. Instead, he went into his room and crawled into bed, not even bothering to get changed into bed clothes. He needed to sleep. He needed to sleep and wake up, because the last thirty minutes were a dream. The deer carcass, the backseat, the car, Eurus – it was all a bad dream. All Sherlock had to do was fall asleep and wake up.

He would wake up in the morning and Eurus would be in her room, and Mycroft would be making breakfast, and everything would be fine.

* * *

But Sherlock did not fall asleep.

He heard Mycroft going to bed, then their father going to bed, but he did not sleep.

He heard the house settling, someone waking up to take Redbeard out and someone going to the bathroom at one point, but he still did not sleep.

He saw the sun shine into his room the next morning, but he never slept.

Finally, he heard the sounds he had been dreading:

“I’m running out for some balsam wood. Do we need anything?” Mycroft called to their father, getting his coat on.

“We’re good, Myc. Drive safe,” their father replied.

Sherlock thought to warn him – to go to his brother and explain that there might be something wrong. But was there something wrong? Eurus definitely followed him inside, didn’t she? She had to have.

Either way, Sherlock couldn’t move.

“Okay; I’ll back in twenty,” Mycroft called, and Sherlock heard him open the door and close it behind him.

And Sherlock waited. He waited for Mycroft to get in the car and drive off. He waited for the proof that he needed that everything was alright, that everything was fine –

But then he heard Mycroft scream, and he knew.

Sherlock had been wrong.

Nothing was alright. In fact, they were _far_ from alright.

The thud and the snap he had heard that night – the reason why Eurus stopped gasping for air – the fact that they didn’t need the hospital – the telephone pole that Sherlock had barely grazed the car up against in his attempt to drive around the deer – the fact that Eurus had her head _out the window –_

Eurus definitely returned home that night, but she never got out of the car.

Eurus Holmes lost her head on the highway.

And it was all Sherlock’s fault.

* * *

No father should have to bury their child. It was hard enough to bury his wife, illness or not, but burying Eurus, his only daughter, so soon after? It was torture for Martin Holmes.

After the funeral, after the mourners had finally left their house, Martin found his way upstairs, into his daughter’s bedroom. No one had been in the room since her death; it was exactly how she left it.

He sat on her bed, flipping through one of her sketchbooks. The girl was always quiet, never getting into trouble, always drawing or working on her miniatures made from trash – hobbies that he never truly appreciated until now. He flipped through every page, studying every drawing, until he reached a blank white page, never to be filled.

He couldn’t imagine how Mycroft felt; he had been the one to find his sister, headless torso sitting in his car. Mycroft was strong though; he barely cried for his own mother when she passed. But he had known she was dying, he had time to understand what was happening and had time to say goodbye. With Eurus, however, it was so sudden, and no one had ever seen it coming. No one was able to say goodbye.

And Sherlock…

His middle child was nearly destroyed with guilt.


	7. SEVEN.

Sherlock tried to live as he always had. He went to school, he saw his friends, he existed, but he felt like he was just going through the motions.

He sat in class, hearing that his teacher was speaking, but was unable to hear a word of it. He couldn’t even focus his attention on John Watson – someone that had been so easy for him to pay attention to, until now.

His eyes drifted up, trying to find the clock, as he would have any other day, but instead finding the rearview mirror from that night.

He saw Eurus’ shoulder. He saw her blood. He didn’t see her head.

He glanced back down, just in time to see John spin around in his seat. A mere fraction of Sherlock’s brain made a note that John Watson had just been staring at him, but no part of him cared.

He even tried smoking, passing around a blunt with his friends under the bleachers during lunch, just like they used to.

Sherlock took a deep hit, passing it along to Victor as they all went back and forth about some girl named Becky that Victor was Facebook friends with and Brian and the fact that he calls his college girlfriend princess.

But Sherlock didn’t care about that. He tried to, but all he could focus on was the last time he had gotten high, and the events that followed.

Suddenly, his chest seized up. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, hey, dude,” Billy said, finally noticing that something wasn’t right. “Dude, dude, dude. Are you…Are you alright?”

Sherlock grasped at his chest, groaning in pain as he struggled for breath.

“I think I’m having a…like a reaction,” he gasped. Sherlock’s had bad reactions to bad weed before, but this…this was different. This was so much worse. His hand move up to his neck. “My throat is…I think my throat is getting bigger,” he went on, without even realizing –

Is this what Eurus felt like, that night?

“Dude, it’s just – it’s just weed,” Victor tried to assure him, but it wasn’t the weed.

“Chill man. It’s all right,” Isaac said, but it wasn’t alright.

“Just hold my hand,” Sherlock finally choked out, snapping his eyes shut as he put his hand out for Victor. This is what they did for each other, if a ride went bad. They were used to this, more or less. “Hold on,” he ordered, and even though he was perturbed that Sherlock wasn’t having the same ride he was, Victor put his hand in Sherlock’s.

And suddenly, Sherlock was sobbing, and not even the best weed in the world could calm him down.

* * *

Mycroft sat in the family car. His car was gone; probably in some scrap heap by now. Mycroft couldn’t just clean it out and drive it again, and he didn’t have the heart to sell it for parts. His sister had died in that car; he couldn’t make a profit off of her death no matter how small.

He was trying to work up the nerve to start the engine when he saw Sherlock pull his bike into the driveway. The two brothers had barely spoken since Eurus’ death. How could they? What would they say to each other? There was nothing they could possibly say to each other, really; nothing that would fix things or bring Eurus back.

So he watched, staying completely still, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t notice him sitting in the car. He watched as Sherlock got off of his bike, leaving it laying down in the driveway like the lazy person he was, and, if he wasn’t trying to avoid his brother, Mycroft would’ve honked the horn and reminded him that they had a garage for a reason. He watched as his brother made his way to the pathway to the door and was surprised to see him stop just before stepping foot upon the path. He stood for a moment, his eyes on the door, his hands balled into fists at his sides, as if he was trying to mentally amp himself up to walk inside the house.

Mycroft watched his brother, and he vaguely wondered for the fiftieth time what the hell Sherlock was thinking that night. What stopped him from calling 911, even if it _was_ too late? What made him just continue on, just step on the gas and drive home? Why didn’t he run inside, explain what happened? Yes, it would’ve been extremely difficult to say, and Mycroft knew that, but it would’ve been a hell of a lot better than not saying anything at all. Instead, he just went to bed like his sister wasn’t dead in the car, knowing full well that Mycroft would find her in the morning, completely and utterly failing to take responsibility for his actions. How _could_ he just let Mycroft find her like that? How could he be so selfish, so cowardly? And, above all, how could he just leave _her head –_

Finally, Sherlock moved, taking one determined step at a time to enter his own house, and a piece of Mycroft was glad that it was that difficult for him to do something so simple after what he had done.

And as soon as Sherlock closed the door behind him, Mycroft started the car.

* * *

Mycroft didn’t know why he was back at the support group. It barely helped before when their mother died, and it certainly wouldn’t help, now. But here he was, sitting in the car, staring at the doors to the Catholic School gymnasium, still wondering if he should get out of the car and go through those doors.

It wouldn’t help. No amount of words or tears or condolences or apologies would bring Eurus back, and Mycroft knew that.

Finally, he shook his head, starting the car up again.

He backed up out of the parking spot, turning himself around, driving up toward the main road again, the same thought repeating over and over again in his head:

This was stupid. He didn’t know why he had come –

And then –

A flash of red and blue, a person jumping out in front of the car with their arms raised, and Mycroft slammed on the breaks to see an older woman – perhaps a bit older than his mother – donning a blue dress and a red coat in front of the car. The woman dashed to the car window and, despite Mycroft having decided he didn’t want to speak to anyone tonight, he found himself rolling down the window.

“Uh, I’m so sorry to chase you down,” the woman said, leaning into Mycroft’s view. “Uh, were you not coming in, or…?” she asked awkwardly, and Mycroft scrambled to think of an excuse.

“I… No, I just, um…I forgot something,” he lied.

“Oh, okay, sorry!” the woman replied, and Mycroft was beginning to wonder how quickly he could roll up the window and drive away. “Sorry, I just…I recognized you from a few months ago.”

Mycroft stared at her for a moment, arching his eyebrow. She recognized him _from the car?_ He was positive he had driven _his_ car to the support group, meaning that she had just seen him in the driver’s seat, internally fighting with himself as to whether or not he should attend. And, somehow, by some weird, almost-creepy miracle, she had recognized him from that alone.

Finally, the woman seemed to sense his unease.

“Oh, God,” the woman sighed, bringing her hands up to her face in embarrassment, if only for a moment. “I feel very silly. I’m Irene,” she introduced herself, placing her hand halfway inside the car’s open window as she placed her other hand on her chest, as if he didn’t know who she was referring to.

He knew that he could drive away at any point, but he felt like the hand that this woman was now resting partially inside of his car was holding the car in place; holding Mycroft hostage in this awkward conversation.

“…Hi,” he finally said.

“A-Are you doing better?” Irene stuttered out, still trying to rescue the conversation that Mycroft repeatedly wanted to kill.

“What?” Mycroft asked, confused for a second. How could she ask that, especially after –

“After your mother?” Irene clarified.

“What? No, no. That’s not…” Mycroft sighed. He was here, and this woman still had her hand halfway in his car; he might as well explain why. “My, um…my sister was killed,” he said, the words feeling foreign in his mouth. Mycroft hadn’t used that terminology to describe what had happened before, and it still didn’t sound right. “Killed” made it sound like someone had gone out and stabbed her or something, but, even though he blamed Sherlock, his brother hadn’t done that. His sister died in an accident. The accident had just been his brother’s fault.

As Mycroft pondered this, Irene was completely beside herself.

“Oh. I’m…” the woman sighed, having no idea what to say. And how could she? No one knew what to say. “I’m so, so sorry,” she said, placing both hands on the bottom of the open window for a moment, before she finally removed them to gesture to the building that Mycroft was just trying to leave the premises of. “Oh, would you like to come in with me? Or we could even just have a coffee –” she tried, but Mycroft shook his head.

“Uh, I’m sorry. Really. I, um… I. I can’t – I really did forget something –” he said, finally going back to his original lie, gesturing to the road. He just needed to leave; that’s all he needed to do.

“My brother died,” Irene offered bluntly, placing her hands back on the car, trapping him again.

Mycroft stared at the woman. He had to hand it to her, awkward as she was, she was _trying._ And if anyone knew exactly what he was going through at this moment, apparently, it would be her.

“Oh,” Mycroft said, finally, after a long silence between the two of them. “I’m so sorry.”

“How old was yours?” Irene asked.

“Thirteen,” Mycroft whispered, after a moment.

“God,” Irene muttered quietly. “That’s awful,” she said, and Mycroft had to agree.

“My brother and my nephew drowned four months ago,” Irene informed him softly. “The little one was seven,” she revealed, and Mycroft couldn’t stop himself.

“Oh my God!” he gasped, horrified at the thought of Eurus, only half the age she grew up to be, plucked from the earth…

He couldn’t imagine it.

Irene looked away from Mycroft and at the building behind them.

“I’ve been coming here for a couple of months now. And it _has_ helped. It doesn’t make it easier, obviously, but sometimes it makes it less lonely,” she said quietly, and Mycroft could feel a lump growing in his throat.

“Okay,” he replied, afraid to say anything else.

“And now I’m about to embarrass myself but, uh…” Irene started, removing her hands from the car one last time to search in her purse for a small notebook and a pen. “…if you need someone to talk to…because we all do…” she went on, scribbling her name and number on a piece of the paper. After a moment, she ripped the paper from the notebook and handed it to Mycroft. “If you need it,” she whispered, and Mycroft found himself accepting the paper.

“Okay,” Mycroft whispered finally. “Thank you. Really,” he said, trying to keep a hold of himself, raising the paper in acknowledgment.

“Okay,” Irene said, and finally stepped away from the car, allowing for Mycroft to drive. “Bye-bye,” she said quietly, giving Mycroft a small wave, and Mycroft stepped on the gas, the paper burning in his hand, amazed by her kindness. She didn’t even know him, why was she being so kind?

But maybe that’s just who she was.


	8. EIGHT.

Mycroft couldn’t sleep that night. The Holmes family were never great sleepers, but the death of Eurus Holmes completely ruined Mycroft’s sleep schedule. The only time he really could get a decent couple of hours of sleep was when he was sleeping in Eurus’ treehouse in the backyard. He had gone up there to sleep so often that he had even pulled up a space heater up there to keep himself warm. It wasn’t the best solution and Mycroft knew that, but for now he needed sleep. So, whenever the need became too much, he gathered a blanket and made his way downstairs.

He had his hand on the knob of the front door when he heard a voice.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning around to face the living room to find his father, sitting in his armchair, lit only by the dim glow of the muted TV.

“You scared me –” Mycroft started, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Sorry, Myc. Where are you going?” he asked, sitting up completely in his chair.

“I was just taking Redbeard out. I’ll be right back,” Mycroft tried to assure him, but his father saw straight through his lie.

“No, you won’t; you’re taking a blanket.”

Mycroft gripped the blanket in his hands.

“I can’t sleep,” he admitted, saying the words out loud for the first time. However, he didn’t need to tell his father where he was planning on trying to sleep.

“It’s freezing out there,” he said after a moment.

“Well, the heater’s up there,” Mycroft countered, and his father sighed.

“You know, I just stopped your brother from doing the same thing. He even gave the same excuse, if you’d believe it,” he informed Mycroft, and Mycroft pursed his lips. Why would _Sherlock_ want to sleep in Eurus’ treehouse, after everything? But the two men stayed silent, and Mycroft anxiously wrung the blanket in his hands until his father spoke. “…Okay.”

“ _Is_ it okay?” Mycroft found himself asking, even though they were both adults and Mycroft, even though he was living under his roof, didn’t exactly need his father’s permission, anymore.

His father shrugged, as if he was thinking the same thing Mycroft was.

“If it gets too cold, come back in,” he said, and Mycroft nodded quickly.

“I just need to sleep,” Mycroft assured his father, and turned around to open the door.

And his father watched him go.

* * *

As Sherlock laid in bed, struggling to sleep, he could see Eurus’ treehouse, and the bright orange light emitting from its window, shining through his and into his bedroom. He knew his brother was up there. Sherlock vaguely wondered if Mycroft had been able to do what he hadn’t and had successfully snuck past their father, or if Mycroft had been caught but allowed to continue, anyway.

A pang of jealous frustration softly burned through Sherlock. How was this his life? How was this their family? Three men who used to be close but now living as near-strangers under the same roof? He wished he wasn’t watching the light through the window, wished it was Eurus up there, instead of Mycroft, wished that –

_Click._

Sherlock stopped breathing, nearly for a moment.

It was unmistakable. It was Eurus’ click.

_Click._

Sherlock shot straight up in bed, glancing around his bedroom. It had been so close – as if Eurus was right next to him, clicking into his ear –

His eyes finally landed in a corner of his room, where he had haphazardly tossed his hoodie onto a chair earlier in the day. At first glance, it almost, _almost_ looked like his sister, crouching behind the chair like she would when they played hide-and-seek as kids, or sitting in the chair like she sometimes did as they grew older.

But when Sherlock looked closer at the corner, he knew it wasn’t her.

Eurus was dead.

And, as if to prove this fact, even though Sherlock fell asleep listening for them hours later, there was not a single click to be heard.

* * *

It was a Friday. Sherlock was at school, and Dr. Holmes was at work, leaving Mycroft completely alone for at least eight hours; the last time Mycroft would get this length of time alone at least until Monday came around again.

He should’ve been working on the exhibit for the Asher Gallery. He knew that.

However, Mycroft instead was working on something completely different: a miniature of Eurus’ bedroom. It matched the real thing almost exactly; Mycroft even drew a tiny SATONY on the wall behind the bed to match the one he had seen the night of their mother’s funeral. It was nearly perfect.

Mycroft glanced up, only for a moment, and his eyes caught the sticky note his father had stuck to Mycroft’s can of paint brushes in his room early that morning:

Call gallery about extending?

Mycroft knew what his father was doing; he was trying to help his son accept that it was alright to not be alright, to ask for help if he needed it.

But Mycroft never needed an extension on anything before in his life, and so he wasn’t about to start today.

He would, however, start making more progress on his exhibit for the gallery, as soon as he added the finishing touches on Eurus’ room –

He reached out for a paint bottle and accidentally bumped the table, spilling the teal paint that matched Eurus’ wallpaper over onto a piece of paper that Mycroft had placed there back on Monday:

Irene’s phone number.

Mycroft picked up the knocked-over bottle of paint and began to sop up the mess with a paper towel, but the more attention he gave to making sure the paint didn’t touch the numbers on the paper, the more he actually considered calling it.

Maybe Mycroft did need help; just not in the way his father was suggesting.

* * *

An hour later, Mycroft found himself outside of an apartment building in town; Irene’s address. They had spoken briefly on the phone, and then Irene had invited Mycroft over, and for some reason Mycroft had said yes.

He stood for a moment outside the door as he briefly considered leaving and calling to tell Irene that he couldn’t make it, but instead he knocked on the door. He glanced down as he waited, his eyes landing on Irene’s welcome mat, embroidered with her name.

It looked handmade. Not only that, but it looked oddly familiar…

Before Mycroft could think about it too hard, the door swung open.

“Mycroft! You came,” Irene exclaimed, smiling warmly at him.

“It’s a little earlier than we said; I hope that’s alright,” Mycroft said, trying to match her smile, but only gritting his teeth nervously instead.

“Ah, you’re perfect. Come in, come in!”

The apartment reminded him of Irene’s age; it looked more like a grandmother’s cottage than a third-floor apartment. Rustic, handmade objects decorated the place, and pictures of Irene’s family lined the walls. However, Mycroft’s mind was still at the door to the apartment.

“Uh, your welcome mat...” Mycroft started, and Irene chuckled as she walked to her kitchen.

“Ah! It’s kind of cute, huh?” she asked, and Mycroft felt obligated to agree.

“Yeah, my mother used to embroider ones just like that,” he informed her.

“Did she really? Isn’t that funny?” she asked as Mycroft watched her putting a tea kettle and two cups on a tray from the doorway.

As she brought the tray over to her kitchen table, she looked up, smiling at Mycroft.

“Please, come in. Sit,” she invited, and Mycroft finally entered the room to oblige.

Mycroft wasn’t exactly sure how Irene had done it; maybe something about the tea, maybe something in the Irene treated him, maybe something about the day or the exhaustion the young man felt in his heart, but the more they talked, the more Mycroft found himself quickly opening up.

Soon enough, he was speaking about Eurus’ death, for the first time ever.

“First there’s the…the smell of something wrong,” he said, a lump growing heavy in his throat. “And then…the body…covered in black blood, like tar…” he revealed slowly, feeling the tears slowly make their way down his cheeks. “And her head wasn’t there so I couldn’t see her face. But it was gone. And her hands, and her little fingernails…” he sobbed, feeling more and more stupid with every word he spoke. Why was he talking about her fingernails? They were fingernails, they weren’t important. But they were a part of her, and therefore they were.

“Hey…” Irene whispered quietly, resting her hand on Mycroft’s as he recovered. She waited a few moments for him to calm himself before she spoke again: “When they dragged up my brother and my nephew, they needed me to identify the bodies. But they didn’t warn me what bodies look like after they’ve been in the ocean,” she said, very quietly. “You can probably imagine; they swell up, get distended, turn grey. I didn’t know that. My brother’s eyes…were eaten out of his head by fish,” she went on, tearing up as she spoke. “And my nephew’s face…” She brought her hands together and pulled them apart, putting the image in Mycroft’s head without the words, until she found them. “…like a balloon.”

As she spoke, Mycroft found himself liking the way they could share the details of the deaths of the people they cared about the most, details too grizzly to share with the group back at the Catholic school. It made it real – it made it so real – but it also made it somewhat bearable. The details weren’t locked up in his head anymore; instead, it was shared between them in a moment that would bond them for life.

Pondering this, Mycroft took a sip of his tea, and caught a black herb on his tongue. He quickly wiped it away and focused back on Irene as she spoke.

“I can sometimes swear I feel them in the room... Do you ever have that?” she asked, and Mycroft considered this. Namely, he remembered seeing his mother, standing in his room, staring him down when he turned off the light.

He blinked the memory away.

“...Small moments maybe,” he admitted quietly, and they sat in the quiet of the room for a moment, after that, until Irene spoke again.

“How is your relationship with your brother?”

“Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, and he could already hear the resentment in his voice.

“Hmm.” Irene nodded, and Mycroft chuckled to himself. Where to begin with Sherlock?

“Oh, god, um…” Mycroft started, trying to find the right words, the right way to tell the story that would give Irene all the context she needed. “Okay: I sleepwalk,” he finally revealed. “I mean, I haven’t done it in years, but, um, when I was younger – I was ten at the time – I woke up, and I was standing over Eurus and Sherlock in his bed, back when they shared a room. And they were…” he took a deep breath, forcing the words out of his mouth. “…completely covered in paint thinner. And so was I. From head to toe,” he said, and only glanced at Irene’s face to find that she hadn’t put the pieces together yet. So, he put them together for her: “And I was standing there with a box of matches and an empty can of paint thinner. And I woke myself up striking the match, which also woke Sherlock up, and he started to scream. And I immediately put the match out – immediately,” he emphasized, just in case Irene judged him for his actions. “I mean, I was just as shocked as he was. Our mother, though, she was furious. It was _impossible_ to convince them that it was just sleepwalking, which of course it was, but…she never believed me. The timing was awful. I had overheard her talking about sending me away to boarding school the day before, so there was stress from that. Sherlock and I had gotten into this stupid quarreling phase, just forever arguing about nothing, such…” he took a breath. “…frivolous stuff. And Sherlock always held it against me. Mum did too; she kicked me out when I turned eighteen, and I think it was because of that. And then she got sick, and Dad let me I move back in…he believed me, about the sleepwalking.” he trailed off before realizing he had gotten off track, and returned to his point. “But Sherlock…” he waved the thought away, and Irene nodded in understanding. “…and there’s nothing I can say and nothing I can do because…it happened,” he admitted. “While I was asleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to change a couple of details with the sleepwalking thing and paint thinner story obviously; for those of you counting at home, when the paint thinner incident occurs, Sherlock is three and Eurus is two.


	9. NINE.

Sherlock had been hoping to enter the house unnoticed – practically prayed for it as Victor Trever pulled into the driveway. Unfortunately, though, his father happened to be home, chopping vegetables for dinner as Sherlock entered the house.

“Hey!” he called from the kitchen as soon as he registered that it was Sherlock walking through the door. “That was quick. Did you bike all the way here?” he asked as Sherlock closed the door – asked as if everything was normal.

“Um, no. Actually my friend drove me home,” Sherlock replied, quickly kicking off his shoes.

“Oh – you should’ve invited him in,” his father said, and Sherlock stifled a scoff as he bee-lined for the stairs. Him, invite Victor always-reeks-of-weed Trevor into the house, after everything? The interrogation would be endless, and if his father didn’t already know that Sherlock smoked, he _definitely_ would, then.

“Oh, by the way, Sherlock, did you, um…” his father started quickly, trying to catch his son’s attention before he vanished into his room. “Have you signed up for that, uh, SAT prep course?”

Sherlock did not break his stride.

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” he deadpanned, giving a false promise in hopes that it would appease his father enough to leave him alone.

“Yeah, you know what, you gotta do that because it’s coming up!” his father called up the stairs as Sherlock finally found his way to his room, slamming the door behind him in response.

He sat on his bed, putting his head in his hands, trying to keep the tears brimming his eyes from overflowing. How could his father be thinking about the SATs? How could he possibly act as if everything was normal, like Eurus was alive and Sherlock hadn’t –

_Knock, knock._

“Sherlock?” his father called, peeking his head into the room without Sherlock’s consent. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly, and Sherlock took a breath, trying to gather himself.

“Are you?” he asked instead.

“Is there anything we can talk about, Sherlock?” he asked, and Sherlock fought to keep from rolling his eyes. The man was a therapist, even when he was trying to be a father. He wasn’t a _bad_ father, per se, just an emotionally distant one – Mycroft and Eurus took after him, that way. Sherlock, however…he took after his mother.

“Like what?” Sherlock asked. If his father could act as if Eurus wasn’t gone, so could Sherlock, right?

“Like anything,” he said, stepping into the room, standing before his son. “What’s going on? What are you feeling?”

“What are _you_ feeling?” Sherlock countered, and his father sighed.

“I’m worried about you,” he finally stated, and Sherlock finally looked up at his father, suddenly overwhelmed. There was so much to say, so much he _couldn’t_ say, and so much that he _wouldn’t_ say, especially not to his father, who could easily go back to Mycroft with anything he _did_ say. “It doesn’t have to be with me, either,” his father added quickly, as if reading his son’s mind. “Maybe you’d like to talk with somebody else...”

“About what?” Sherlock asked, crossing his arms.

“About everything,” his father offered. “You’re going through a lot, Sherlock.”

“So are you!” Sherlock snapped. Hadn’t he lost his wife? His daughter? Wasn’t he now living with his two sons who _used_ to be close, but now barely spoke to each other? Wasn’t that a lot for him, as well?

“Well, we all are,” his father allowed. “I think we could all use someone to talk to.”

“So why aren’t you, then?”

“I probably will. I probably need to,” his father finally admitted, and Sherlock finally looked away. This was different. This was real. This, for a moment, was his father – someone Sherlock wasn’t sure how to face. “You don’t have to choose now. I’m just letting you know that it’s there. You could even see one of the guys in my building. I know a few guys.”

For two whole seconds, Sherlock considered going. He considered talking about it – about the guilt he felt inside. About the blame he felt Mycroft putting on him. About how much he missed his sister. About all of it.

“...And you think I need to go?” he finally asked, and his father shrugged in reply.

“Well, that’s for you to say. I can’t tell you your experience.”

And at that, Sherlock set his jaw. He just needed his father to be _his father_ for two seconds, just enough to be a parent and tell him what to do. But instead, the man went back to his professional self, keeping all emotions a safe distance away. All he needed was a definitive answer, and his father couldn’t even provide him with that.

“Maybe later,” he said, feeling the chill in his own voice. Out of his peripheral, he watched his father standing just two feet away from him. So close, and yet so far were the miles between them.

“...Okay. Let me know,” his father said finally, and Sherlock shrugged.

“Okay.”

“All right,” he said, after a moment, and he, much to Sherlock’s relief, found his way to the door. “Dinner in a bit,” he added, and Sherlock pursed his lips in response. Dinner. Just what he wanted. Normalcy. Just what he needed.

Yeah, right.

* * *

Mycroft wasn’t exactly sure when he had started his newest miniature. He should’ve been working on his legitimate projects; the projects that had a deadline that was drawing ever nearer, but he couldn’t stop thinking about that night. The accident. The pole. His car. Eurus’ head –

He barely even heard the knock on his door before his father opened it, anything he was about to say stopping before they passed through his lips.

Mycroft continued to paint his newest miniature: a recreation of the night his sister was killed. He continued to paint the blood that was pouring from his sister’s decapitated head.

“Jesus Christ, Mycroft,” his father said, finally. “You’re not planning letting him see that, are you?”

It was then Mycroft looked up, broken from his trance.

“Who?” he asked.

“Sherlock,” he replied through gritted teeth, and Mycroft suddenly felt like he was ten years old again, about to get scolded for something he didn’t do. “How do you think he’s gonna feel when he sees that?”

“What?” Mycroft asked, defensive. “It’s not about _him.”_ Sherlock had already made the entire accident about _him_ when he decided to leave Mycroft to find what was left of Eurus in the morning. He made it about him every single second of every single day since the accident.

“Oh, no?”

“No, it’s a neutral view of the accident!” Mycroft assured him. And it was – if it was a _subjective_ view of the accident, Mycroft would’ve put wings on Eurus’s torso…or horns on Sherlock’s head, as if he was drawing over a family photo like a child.

His father sighed from beside him, and Mycroft added another layer of dark red paint to the pool of Eurus’ blood on the road. He knew his father had more to say – much more to say. Perhaps that he was being cruel to his brother or that creating the accident was useless or that he needed to forgive his brother, but none of those things came out of his mouth.

“Are you – uh – are you coming down for dinner?” he asked, finally.

“I’m making dinner,” Mycroft informed him, not looking up from his work.

“No, I made the dinner. I came to get you,” his father quickly snapped, and Mycroft glanced at the clock. Funny – it was later than he thought it was. “Come, stay, whatever you want. I don’t really give a shit…” he trailed off, finally leaving his first-born son alone, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

Yes, he was definitely seething about the miniature.

* * *

The tension at the dinner table that night was like a physical entity in the room, sitting in the empty chair between Mycroft and Sherlock – the empty chair that used to be Eurus’ place at the table. The only one who was really eating was, of course, Sherlock (probably because the teenager was high, as far as Mycroft could tell), as Mycroft picked at the food on his plate.

Every clink of Sherlock’s cutlery, every time Sherlock swallowed, every bite and breath Sherlock took annoyed his brother to no end, now. Especially tonight. Especially now, as he turned to his father and opened his mouth.

“This is really good, dad,” Sherlock said quietly, as if Eurus was sitting right next to him, like it was any other night.

“Thanks, buddy,” their father replied, and Mycroft scoffed to himself, not even bothering to look up from his food.

“Buddy.” Yeah, alright. Sherlock was his _buddy_ now, like he was five and hadn’t killed his sister just weeks ago. If Sherlock was his “buddy,” Mycroft might as well have been an angel, sent in by God himself. And if Sherlock was his “buddy,” what did that make Eurus?

Mycroft could hear Sherlock’s silence from his place at the table. Obviously, he had heard Mycroft’s chuckle to himself (as quiet as it was) and was slowly trying to figure out how best to approach the situation.

 _Don’t, Sherlock. Just. Don’t,_ Mycroft begged, _pleaded_ , even, silently from his place at the table.

But Sherlock did.

“You okay, Mycroft?” he asked, even quieter, and Mycroft slowly looked up. How could he ask that, after everything? How _dare_ he has that? Out of all the half-wit questions –

“What?” he said instead, as if he hadn’t heard his brother, but Sherlock was looking down at his food, too nervous to even look at his brother. The two hadn’t made eye contact since the night of the accident – since _before_ the accident.

“Is there something on your mind?” Sherlock asked his dinner plate, and it was obvious to Mycroft that he was choosing his words carefully. Purposefully. He was asking for it.

Mycroft glanced at his father, and then back at his brother. He couldn’t take the bait, not here, not now, not _ever –_

“Is there something on _your_ mind?” he asked, deflecting the question. He didn’t expect for Sherlock to say anything of worth – to suddenly decide to take responsibility for the accident – but he had a slight hope, for mere seconds.

“It just seems like there might be something you wanna say,” Sherlock said, still not looking up from his food.

“Sherlock…” their father warned, but Mycroft was already opening his mouth.

“Like what? I mean, why would I want to say something? So I can watch you sneer at me?” Mycroft asked, looking down at his food as soon as he noticed Sherlock beginning to look up.

“Sneer at you? I don’t ever sneer at you –” he started, and Mycroft couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Oh, brother mine. You don’t have to. You get the point across,” Mycroft assured him.

“Okay, so fine. Then say what you want to say, then,” Sherlock said, fighting to keep his voice level.

“Sherlock –” their father tried again.

“I don’t want to say anything. I’ve _tried_ saying things,” Mycroft said, his voice rising. And he had tried to say them. He had tried to say that he was angry, that he blamed Sherlock, that he wished he would take responsibility, that things had been different, that he missed his sister –

“Okay, so ‘try’ again,” Sherlock ordered. “Release yourself.”

“Oh, ‘release’ _you,_ you mean!” Mycroft shot back.

“Yeah, fine! Release me! Just _say_ it!” Sherlock shouted, and the two boys finally met eyes. “Just _fucking_ say it!”

Mycroft slammed his hand down on the table, rising from his chair.

“Don’t you swear at me, you little shit!” he roared, jabbing his finger in his brother’s face. “Don’t you _EVER_ raise your voice at me! I am your _brother!_ Do you understand? All I _do_ is worry and slave and defend you, and all I get back is that…” he gestured to his brother – at his face – at his – “ – fucking face on your face! So full of _disdain_ and _resentment_ and always _so_ annoyed. Well, now our sister is _dead!_ And I _know_ you miss her, and I _know_ it was an accident, and I _know_ you're in pain. And I wish I could take that away for you. I _wish_ I could _shield you_ from the knowledge that you did what you did, but our _sister_ is _dead!_ ” he shouted, his voice cracking and growing wet with tears at the idea of it, but he carried on, come what may. “She's gone forever! And what a _waste!_ If it could have maybe brought us together or _something!”_ he glanced at his brother again and let the rage in his heart fire itself again as he shoved his finger in Sherlock’s face once more. “If you could have just said ‘I’m sorry,’ or faced up to what happened. Maybe then we could _do_ something with this!” he continued, gesturing to the table – to the family broken beyond repair. “But you can’t take responsibility for anything! So now _I_ can’t accept. And I _can’t_ forgive, because…” he glanced around the table once more, and as his eyes dusted across his father’s face he figured that, if he was going to get kicked out again for such an outburst, he might as well finish it. “…Because _nobody_ admits to _anything_ they’ve DONE!”

Mycroft couldn’t recall ever shouting like this in his life. He was normally calm and collected, like their father. Sherlock was one for outbursts, as was their mother. But Mycroft? Never. Not in a million years.

Except for now, apparently.

He could feel his father’s and Sherlock’s eyes on him as he caught his breath and finally sat down. He couldn’t hear the sniveling Mycroft had spent years listening to that signified that Sherlock was in tears, but that could only mean that Sherlock was thinking of a rebuttal.

So he picked up his fork, poked at his food, and waited for the other shoe to drop.

“What about you, brother dear?” Sherlock asked, ever so quietly, and Mycroft continued to keep his eyes on his food. “She didn’t wanna go to the party. So why was she there?”

Mycroft looked up, a sneer of his own growing on his face, ready for round two just as much as Sherlock evidently was, but their father spoke instead.

“Okay. We’re stopping this right now. That’s it,” he said, but Mycroft continued to glare at Sherlock, pursing his lips to keep everything else he had to say from spilling out. “I said stop. Right now. Boys!”

“Fine!” Mycroft finally exclaimed, turning his attention to his father. He rose from the table, ready to leave, but then he paused. He couldn’t just leave. He had to say something. Something to make them think – something to make them realize that acting like everything was normal _wasn’t normal_ – but he stopped himself. “Fine,” he muttered instead, and left the table for his room, leaving his father and his _buddy_ behind.

* * *

The house was quiet for the next few days. The two Holmes brothers avoided each other, most of the time, after the explosive outburst during the family dinner. Sherlock stayed in his room, only leaving to go to school and use the bathroom, while Mycroft, just across the hall, poured himself into his work. He made great progress on the preschool classroom miniature, but after days of working on it, he was slowly losing motivation.

He had been staring at the preschool miniature for the past twenty minutes, trying to will himself to move, until his eyes drifted up to a post-it note above his desk, a post-it note that he had written and posted to himself in a stronger moment: KEEP WORKING!

But Mycroft, in the feeble moment he currently found himself in, did not want to keep working. He needed a break. He needed time away from this project; he needed some air. He needed to get out of the house.

As he thought this, his eyes drifted back to his desk, surveying the materials before him, taking inventory.

Maybe a quick trip to the store to replenish his supplies would lift his spirits…

* * *

An hour and a half later, Mycroft walked out of Joel’s Art Supplies, two bags full of supplies in hand, on the way to his car. He glanced out into the parking lot, looking for his car, but instead he found –

No, it couldn’t be her. Mycroft had just spent the better part of a week cooped up inside of his own house; what were the chances that they would both be here at the same time?

“Irene?” he called, despite himself, and the woman, who had been putting her own bags of supplies into the back of her station wagon, looked up, turning toward him. For a moment, she looked confused as to why anyone would be calling her name from across the parking lot at Joel’s Art Supplies, but once her eyes fell on Mycroft, her face lit up.

“Oh! Mycroft!” she exclaimed, immediately dropping what she was doing and started towards him.

“Hey,” Mycroft said, walking her way, not failing to notice the way she nearly skipped across the parking lot, a new pep in her step that hadn’t been there the last time they saw each other.

Something had changed.

“Hi, Mycroft!” Irene nearly cheered, bringing Mycroft into a long, tight hug.

“How are you?” he asked, still trying to piece together what might have changed for her in the past week or so that might have affected her this way. She placed a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek, and he struggled to smile in return. “Are you okay?” he finally asked, only half-joking.

“Oh, Mycroft, I’m – I am, yes. I’m really good,” she replied, as if the words themselves took a weight from her shoulders. “I’m really, really...” she sighed, bringing her hands up to her face, as if she could barely contain herself.

Meanwhile, Mycroft was simultaneously questioning her sanity and whether or not it was too late to just return to his own vehicle.

“Something’s…something happened, Mycroft,” she continued, beaming from ear to ear. “I feel completely turned around,” she announced.

“What happened?” Mycroft asked, and Irene began laughing to herself, as if Mycroft had just said the funniest thing in the world.

“I don’t even know if I should say!” she exclaimed happily.

Sherlock sometimes acted like this when he was high. Was Irene high? She was their mother’s age, she couldn’t be high…could she?

“What do you mean?” Mycroft asked.

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy!”

“No, not at all,” Mycroft tried to assure her, and he supposed he did a good job. That, or she didn’t need much coaxing.

“Okay,” she said, stepping forward and grasping Mycroft’s biceps and sliding her hands down to his wrists. “Come on,” she said, letting go of one of Mycroft’s wrists and leading him to her car, away from the middle of the parking lot. Once they were at her car, she started her story. “I met…a spiritual medium,” she informed him. “They were preforming an open séance.”

Mycroft, one who was instantly turned off by the idea of spiritual mediums and séances, began to open his mouth.

“I know, I know what you’re thinking, but they asked me to attend. They were bringing in skeptics in, and scientists. So I went, fully skeptical. And what I experienced there, Mycroft, was truly…” she paused, searching for a word, but Mycroft took the opportunity to ask his questions.

“An ‘open séance?’” he repeated, and Irene gripped his arms again, forcing him to look her in the eye.

“They brought in the spirit of a man from the nineteenth century. And no, no, not in a kind of smoke and mirrors way, no,” she added quickly, as Mycroft tried to chuckle the idea of Irene’s story away. “And the man sitting next to me was a completely cynical neurologist and he looked _permanently_ changed by the end of it.”

Mycroft again opened his mouth, already shaking his head at the idea, but Irene stopped him again.

“No, I – I know what you’re thinking. I do, but I…I approached the medium afterwards, and I asked her about my brother and my nephew and she came to my apartment and she…” Irene then lowered her head, her eyes filling with tears at the mention of her family. That, or at the mention of what this medium did for them.

She then let go of Mycroft, taking a step away, trying to collect herself.

Mycroft again briefly considered sneaking back to his car, but ultimately Irene turned back around before he could actually follow through with the plan.

“She ended up performing… Well, she conjured my nephew.”

Mycroft couldn’t believe her. He couldn’t. An incredulous smile creeped across his face before he could stop it. A smile that was partially a grimace, mourning the lost sanity of the woman who had just been duped by a medium claiming she connected with her dead relatives.

“No, no, no, I know, I know what that smile is. I know. Mycroft, Mycroft…” she said, and Mycroft finally looked back at her. “I wouldn’t believe it either – I _didn’t_ believe it, but…I heard _his_ voice. I felt _his_ presence in the room. Mycroft, this is _real,”_ she assured him, but Mycroft was not convinced. “What are you doing right now?” Irene asked, after a moment, and Mycroft stumbled over his answer:

“I’m just here, shopping,” he said, looking for his car again. This would make the perfect segue to get out of this parking lot, to get away from Irene and her talk of mediums and séances and dead nephews being brought back from the dead –

“Do you wanna come over?” Irene asked, and Mycroft started to shake his head. “Oh, Mycroft. Please, Mycroft. I really think you should. It would be _everything_ if you came.”

Mycroft glanced at his car one more time. What was at home? Work that he didn’t want to do and a brother he didn’t want to look at? He didn’t _want_ to go home, not really. What was the harm of humoring the older woman, just for an hour or two?

He could do that. He could humor her.


	10. TEN.

The two people stood in Irene’s darkened apartment, and Irene herself struck a match, lighting a single candle on her kitchen table.

“Nice…mood setter…” Mycroft murmured quietly, trying to fill the uneasy silence.

The only response Irene gave was a deep breath as she closed her eyes, as if she was trying to feel the energy in the room.

“Okay,” she said, after a moment, finally looking at Mycroft. “I’m going to put my hand on the glass, but I’m not going to add pressure. You do the same.”

Unwillingly, Mycroft was suddenly reminded of a scary movie he and both of his siblings had once watched years ago, on a night where he was supposed to be babysitting his two younger siblings. In the film, a group of kids, not unlike themselves, had found and played with an Ouija board, a game with the same concept as what Irene was asking him to do now. Mycroft quickly deduced how easy it was to fake results with the toy; anyone could add pressure and move the planchette across the board, then deny it when asked. If they were a good enough liar, everyone would believe them and think it was a “spirit.” The movie didn’t scare Mycroft at all, and he remembered little Eurus watching the scene carefully, almost intrigued by the concept. Sherlock, however, pissed himself at an easily predictable jump scare during the scene, causing Mycroft to have to leave his sister with the movie to help him change his pants.

With all of this in mind, Mycroft placed his fingertips atop of Irene’s.

“Alright,” Irene said, breathing deeply again, as if bracing herself for what came next. “Louis?” she called quietly, trying to coax her nephew out of the air between them. “Louis, are you here? It’s Auntie.”

For a moment, it seemed like the air changed within the room; like an air conditioner just kicked on. Yes, that’s all it was, just the air conditioner, Mycroft reasoned with himself. Irene had probably planned it that way, syncing up the séance with the change in atmosphere, even if she didn’t realize it. It was fine.

“Louis,” Irene continued, “if you are here with us, please just try and slide the glass.

Mycroft braced himself, although he wasn’t sure why. Irene would move the cup, say it was her nephew, and Mycroft would agree. Simple as that.

“Louis, if you’re here –” Irene started to repeat, but then the glass slid out from under Irene’s hand.

Irene did not move the glass.

Mycroft pulled his hand back, quickly, looking to Irene to see her smiling, smiling as if she had just been greeted by someone she had been dying to speak to for years.

_Irene did not move the glass._

“Hi, Louis!” she laughed, her voice wet with tears. “Hi, Louis!”

“How did you do that?!” Mycroft stammered, confused for one of the few times in his life.

Irene did it – she had to have done it –

_Irene did not move the glass._

“Louis, I’m going to ask you some questions. Okay, sweetie?” Irene went on, completely ignoring Mycroft as he took the liberty of checking under the table for the magnet or the string that would have moved the glass on its own. Where was the smoke? Where were the mirrors?

“If the answer is yes, slide the glass to the right. If it’s not, slide it the other way, to the left. You understand?” she asked, hand still on the cup, until _the cup slid to the right_ , out from under Irene’s hand.

_Irene did not move the glass –_

“Louis, are you okay?” she asked, and Mycroft watched as the cup again moved completely on its own to the right. “Are you in pain?” she asked, and Mycroft watched as the cup slid to the left.

He was so caught up in the moment that, when the blasted air conditioner – because it _had to have been the air conditioner and not anything else –_ blew air across the top of Mycroft’s head, he jumped up out of his seat.

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Irene tried to assure Mycroft, sitting him back down, leaving Mycroft to have his moment while she bent over in her chair. “Louis, I brought your chalkboard,” she announced, coming back up with a small chalkboard and a piece of chalk. “Remember your chalkboard?” she asked the open air as Mycroft realized that there were tears streaming down his face.

He was crying. This trick of the light or something had him _crying._

“Can you write something?” Irene asked, standing the chalk on the board for her nephew.

And Mycroft cried as he watched the chalk slide across the board, not lifting once as it wrote out “I LUV YU AWNTY” in capital letters.

“Oh, Louis! I love you, sweetheart!” Irene nearly shouted to the skies, but Mycroft had had enough.

“I’m sorry, could we stop?” he asked quietly, _his_ voice now wet with tears, and Irene turned to him sharply.

“What?” she asked, as if Mycroft had just asked for the world from her.

“I’m sorry, please –” Mycroft stammered, putting his head in his hands, trying to calm himself down, and Irene looked back up toward the empty air of the room.

“Louis, we’re going to stop for a second, but I’ll be right back,” she assured her nephew, rising from her seat to turn the light back on.

As soon as light flooded the room, Mycroft scooted back in his chair, wiping his eyes.

“Are you alright?” she asked, the gentle woman back, placing her hands on his shoulders as she came around to face him.

“I’m sorry, I’m just – I’m really –” Mycroft tried to explain, but no words came to mind, his entire being overwhelmed by the experience for reasons that he couldn’t understand.

“I understand, I understand,” Irene tried to assure him as he rose from his seat, but he didn’t need reassurances. He needed to get out, he needed to breathe, he needed to think about this –

“I have to go –”

“That’s exactly how I reacted the first time.”

“Okay. I’m – I’m sorry. Thank you.”

“No, no. It’s okay. It’s okay,” Irene tried, but Mycroft could barely hear her over his own thoughts.

“Thank you. Yeah,” Mycroft mumbled made his way to the door, but Irene caught up with him in the hallway, a printout and the still-warm candle in her hands.

“I know. I know, honey,” she assured him again, and then tried to press the objects into his hands. “If you want to try this on your own –”

“God –” Mycroft groaned, but Irene continued.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. First light the candle, then choose an item that belonged to your sister. That will be your link. Mine was the chalkboard; that’s _my_ link.”

Mycroft shook his head, even as the perfect item came to his mind: Eurus’ sketchbook. She had carried it around like a security blanket for years –

“It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s okay. There you go,” she said, as Mycroft finally got a hold on his breathing. “Then when you’re ready, read this out loud, every syllable, very carefully,” she said, holding up the printout in their hands.

“Sorry, why? What is it?” Mycroft asked, not quite following.

“I don’t know what language it is,” Irene admitted. “The medium had me read it first. It’s to make things start,” she said, and Mycroft nodded, trying to play along despite his desire to leave. “But remember, your whole family – every member – needs to be in the house. Your brother, everyone. Very important. Okay?”

“Okay,” Mycroft said, finally accepting the items, trying to placate her enough to leave.

“Deep breath,” Irene ordered as she finally released him, and Mycroft took one on his way to the door.

His hand was on the doorknob when Irene called after him:

“You didn’t kill her, Mycroft!”

Mycroft stopped at the door. How could she know that? How could she know the decisions that Mycroft had made that had ultimately led to his sister’s death? How could she know how responsible he felt, despite how much he pushed the blame onto Sherlock? And how could she possibly know all of those feelings were festering down inside of him every waking moment?

He finally turned to look at her.

“What?” he asked, and Irene smiled.

“She isn’t gone.”

* * *

Mycroft sped down the road, trying to put as much distance between him and Irene as possible, but despite the walls of her apartment and the buildings and streets and miles between them, her words and what he had experienced still flooded his mind with no intention of leaving. Part of him still tried to piece together how exactly Irene had managed to rig her apartment to move the cup and move the piece of chalk without Mycroft noticing, but a part of him, a quieter part of him, knew that she didn’t rig the apartment at all.

Mycroft slowed down for a stoplight.

It was real.

But it wasn’t, it couldn’t have been.

But maybe –

_Click._

It was a good thing that Mycroft was at a red light, or he would’ve easily crashed the car. He whipped around in the driver’s seat, almost expecting Eurus to be there, giggling, like she used to when she was younger and first started clicking, having succeeded in sneaking up on big brother Mycroft and startling him.

But there was no one in the backseat.

The click had been so loud – so clear – so real – like Eurus herself had been in the backseat the whole time, leaning forward to click in Mycroft’s ear.

But she wasn’t there. It wasn’t real – it couldn’t have been. It was just Mycroft’s imagination.

So why was he still weeping?


	11. ELEVEN.

That night, Mycroft laid awake in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, his mind still racing from the day’s events.

All logic was telling him that whatever Irene was going on about, it was somehow fake. The séance wasn’t real; it couldn’t have been. Ghosts didn’t exist, nor did spirits or even a life after death, as far as Mycroft was concerned. Dead was dead, and that was the end of it. Whatever happened in Irene’s apartment – despite whatever Irene herself believed – was entirely Irene’s imagination, and her energy obviously affected Mycroft. Whatever Mycroft saw was faked; he couldn’t exactly figure out _how_ it was faked, but it was.

However, the click Mycroft heard in the car was not.

That bothered Mycroft, a bit.

He was deep in thought about the click in the car, until movement caught his eye – bugs, crawling across his pillow.

There were only two of them, two little ants, but it was enough to unnerve him. As he sat up to flick the bugs from this pillow, and perhaps change his pillowcase, he then noticed a neat line of the bugs across his bedspread.

Why were their ants in his bed? He never ate in bed; there was no food for them in his bed.

Mycroft looked to the window, wondering if he had left it open, despite the chilly weather, but it was not only closed but locked.

There was, however, what seemed to be an entire colony of ants finding their way into the house through a small gap in the corner of the sill. All of the ants were crawling from the windowsill down the wall, across the bedroom floor, and into the hallway.

And suddenly, without fully realizing what he was doing, Mycroft was out of bed and following the ants, not to the kitchen, but to Sherlock’s room.

The door was open as the teenage boy slept, and Mycroft walked into the room, watching the ants as they crawled across the bedroom floor, up the bed post and onto the mattress, continuing up Sherlock’s legs and across his body, all the way to his neck.

This is where the colony made their home, completely covering Mycroft’s little brother’s face and neck, totally obscuring it to Mycroft. They crawled all over the sleeping boy’s face, across his eyes, through his hair, up his nose and into his ears and mouth –

Just like what Mycroft imagined Eurus’ head looked like when the authorities finally found it.

Mycroft could feel his mouth opening, a scream welling from deep within his stomach, crawling its way up his throat, similar to how the ants were probably crawling down Sherlock’s –

“Mycroft?” Sherlock voice asked, despite him sleeping, despite the ants in his mouth. “What are you doing?”

Mycroft slowly closed his mouth, glancing around the room. There were no ants, now, the colony having completely vanished. And Sherlock was sitting up in bed, half awake, staring at his brother, who he hadn’t spoken to in about a week.

Was Mycroft sleepwalking, again?

“What’s going on?” Mycroft whispered, confused, not exactly asking Sherlock, but not exactly _not_ asking him, either.

“You’re sleepwalking,” Sherlock realized, stating what Mycroft’s brain had just been considering.

The silence stretched between them for a moment, leaving the two boys staring at each other for longer than they had in a long time, until Mycroft finally broke through the quiet.

“I’m sorry. Is Eurus here?” he asked, still reeling.

“Why are you scared of me?” Sherlock asked suddenly, loudly, as if the words had been fighting for a way to come out for nearly a week, now.

Mycroft stared at his brother, no longer concerned as to whether or not Eurus was in the room, or what exactly led Mycroft to Sherlock’s room in the first place.

“What?” he asked, preparing for some long, tearful speech from Sherlock, one that probably would start a fight, if they weren’t careful. That’s how it normally was, between them – how it always was – how it probably would always be. “I never wanted to be your brother,” Mycroft said, before clamping his hands over his mouth.

He thought he was only going to think that.

He wasn’t planning on saying it out loud, on _ever_ saying it out loud.

But apparently, just as his body had gotten up from bed and found its way to Sherlock’s room without Mycroft’s consent, Mycroft’s mouth was going to move on its own accord, as well.

Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears.

 _“Why?”_ the boy asked, and Mycroft pulled his hand from his mouth just long enough to give a response.

“I was scared,” he admitted, then removed his hand from his mouth once more. “I didn’t feel like a brother. Like I _could be_ a brother. I didn’t want to be one! I told her – how could I be a good brother if I couldn’t even be a good _son –_ she pressured me –” Mycroft started, not knowing where exactly the sentence was going to go, but Sherlock cut him off before he could find out.

“Then why did she have me?!” he cried.

“It wasn’t my fault! I tried to stop it!” Mycroft exclaimed before he could stop himself, and Sherlock stared at him, confused.

“How?” he asked, finally, and Mycroft finally told him:

“I tried to make her have a miscarriage.”

“How?” Sherlock asked again, demanding the answer from his brother, and Mycroft shrugged as he struggled for a single answer.

“However I could – I snuck things she shouldn’t have into her food, I hid her prenatal pills, I tried to inhibit her from doing whatever the doctors told her to do to stop her from having you!”

Mycroft remembered those nine months vividly, the desire to get rid of the thing growing inside of his mother. Not only get rid of it, but save it. He could feel himself losing his mind – he slept walked, his grades were slipping in school for reasons he couldn’t explain, he suffered from migraines that lasted for days. If the baby was born, would it lose its mind, too? Or, what if the baby was perfectly fine, better than Mycroft, even? What would happen, at that point? Would his mother even still want him? What would she do with him, then? Mycroft had spent many sleepless nights pondering this and many more trying to figure out which of them was the cancer Mycroft needed to remove. Was it the baby acting as a tumor, sucking the life out of his mother? Or his mother the illness, caging and suffocating the baby, never allowing it to truly live?

Mycroft could never settle on the answer.

“But it _didn’t work_ – I’m happy it didn’t work –” Mycroft tried to assure Sherlock, to take back all the things he had once done to stop his birth from happening within a single sentence, but Sherlock could not be soothed.

“You tried to kill me!” he sobbed.

“No, I did not! I love you!” Mycroft exclaimed. “I love you, Sherlock!”

But then he blinked, and Sherlock was suddenly soaking wet. Covered head to toe, not with ants, but with paint thinner.

“Why did you try to kill me?!” Sherlock asked, and Mycroft knew this was no longer about the attempted miscarriage.

“I didn’t! I was trying to save you!” Mycroft cried back at his brother, but he could feel the paint thinner he was covered with, too.

And then he lit the match –

And then Mycroft sat up, gasping for breath.

He was in his own bed, clothes and hair and skin completely dry. Sherlock was sleeping in the next room.

It was a dream. The bugs, the sleepwalking, the conversation with Sherlock, the confession, the paint thinner, the match – it was all a dream.

And for some reason – a reason that was beyond him – he was suddenly ready to try contacting Eurus.

* * *

“Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up,” Mycroft whispered, placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock woke up to the touch, finding his older brother inches from his face.

“What?”

“It’s okay, it’s me,” Mycroft assured him, though at this point that wasn’t much of an assurance. “I am so, _so_ sorry for everything. Please, please forgive me,” Mycroft begged in a whisper, still alarmingly close to Sherlock’s face, giving him no choice but to forgive him.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock mumbled.

“I can’t stand the things I said,” Mycroft said, bringing Sherlock in for a hug – something that he hadn’t done since their mother died. “Can you get up, Sherlock? We’re gonna try something.”

“I was having a nightmare,” Sherlock murmured, still half asleep, still remembering it vividly and forgetting those details all at once. It was something to do with bugs…

“Oh, it’s okay. We can do something,” Mycroft replied, smiling, whispering quickly, excitedly.

“Do what?” Sherlock asked. It was the middle of the night, what could they possibly do?

“I figured it out. Come on,” Mycroft said, finally giving his brother room to breathe. “Come on,” he repeated, already halfway out the door, leaving Sherlock to get up on his own as Mycroft went into their parents room to wake their father.

Sherlock glanced at the clock. It was one forty-five in the morning. What could Mycroft possibly want from them at one forty-five in the morning? And how could he be so excited about it?

But, Mycroft was talking to him again.

So Sherlock got up.

Downstairs, Mycroft led Sherlock and their father through their darkened house, lit only by the candle on the kitchen table. On their descent down the stairs, Sherlock kept looking to his father, looking for answers, but he could provide none. Whatever this was, it was completely Mycroft’s doing.

“It’s freezing in here,” Dr. Holmes said as they approached the kitchen table, making to go for the open window across the living room, but Mycroft interjected before he could reach it.

“Wait! No, no, no, what are you doing? Wait!”

“I’m gonna close the window,” their father replied, and Mycroft shook his head, determined.

“No, no, we can’t _change_ anything; I don’t want to mess it up,” he explained. “Everyone needs to sit, come sit,” Mycroft ordered, taking a seat for himself at the kitchen table. “My friend Irene taught me how to do this,” he informed them, waiting for Sherlock and his father to sit down.

Sherlock glanced at their father.

“What friend Irene?” their father asked, using his classic “and why haven’t I heard about this friend until just now?” tone of voice. Normally, he used this voice with Sherlock whenever he mentioned that he was hanging out with his friends after school, but he almost never used this tone with Mycroft.

“We need our palms on the table, and our fingers to touch,” Mycroft went on, completely ignoring the question. “Please,” he added, when he saw that no one was moving.

“What are we doing here, Mycroft?” their father asked, exasperated.

“Please,” Mycroft repeated. “You’ll see.”

Dr. Holmes now looked to Sherlock, gauging his youngest son’s reaction to all this, and Mycroft continued to look back and forth between the other two living members of his family.

“Please. Trust me,” he begged, but when neither of them moved, Mycroft sighed, getting up from the table. “Alright, fine. We can do it over _here,_ then,” he said, moving the chair and dragging the table across the floor, over to where Sherlock and their father stood, frozen to their spots in confusion. “Sherlock,” he murmured, taking Sherlock by the shoulders and moving him to Mycroft’s desired spot. “Okay. Okay, Dad,” he went on, taking his father by the wrist and pulling him closer to the table as well. “Come on,” he said, standing between the two, taking both of their hands. “I need you both to concentrate.”

“On what?” Sherlock asked, quietly.

“Think about Eurus, if you can,” Mycroft replied quickly, and then their father was ripping his hand from Mycroft’s.

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake,” their father groaned.

Sherlock had never heard his father swear. In fact, he had never heard Mycroft curse, either, until about a week ago.

Sherlock’s eyes fell upon the candle in the middle of the table.

This is what Eurus’ death had done to them. This is what _Sherlock_ had done to them. Always angry, always exasperated and exhausted, always fighting, always with him or because of him –

All because of what he did to Eurus.

“Dad, please, please!” Mycroft begged, letting go of Sherlock’s hand to face him, leaving Sherlock to stare at the candle’s flame. “I tried this twenty minutes ago, and it worked, I would not be bringing you down here if it didn’t –”

“What worked?!” their father demanded.

“Well, I just need to show you!”

“Show what?!”

And for a second, Mycroft was quiet, trying to find the words to explain whatever the hell he was doing, and what exactly he could say that would make his father stay.

“Fuck!” Mycroft exclaimed finally, frustrated, and Sherlock flinched at the sound. “I’m a…I’m a medium. Okay? I was seeing apparitions earlier and I just shook them off and I shouldn’t have,” he revealed, looking at his father to see the incredulous look on his face. “Please, I know how it sounds, but there’s no way to talk about it! I just need to show you, okay? Please, you’ll see! I’m completely lucid,” he assured his father, and Sherlock was quickly reminded of the times, the times he could barely remember the details of but could vividly remember the fear of, where Mycroft _wasn’t_ always completely lucid.

But he remembered the paint thinner. He remembered the match.

Their father finally looked around his eldest son to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock, go to bed,” he ordered shortly, sending Mycroft into hysterics.

“What?! No, no, no! Sherlock, please!” he begged, rounding on his brother. “We need to do this as a family – this needs _all_ our energies, okay? _Together,”_ Mycroft explained, and something about the way his brother looked at him, or maybe something about the fact that he was maybe trying to contact Eurus, and maybe the fact that Sherlock wanted to contact Eurus, too, made Sherlock want to believe him.

He nodded at his brother in understanding, and looked to their father.

“All right, I’ll stay,” he agreed, and then Mycroft was turned back to his father, grasping onto his shoulder, trying to convince him:

“Dad. Dad, please. I really, _really_ need you to be open with this, please, _please._ I promise – both of you –” he assured them, looking back at Sherlock to include him in the promise before turning back to his father once more. “Please. I need you to be open. Please,” he said, holding open his hand before his father for him to take. “Come on, Dad. Come on, come on, I promise –” he whispered, until Martin Holmes, exasperated and closed to the idea as he was, took Mycroft’s hand.

Sherlock quickly grasped his brother’s other hand before their father changed his mind, and Mycroft squeezed it tightly.

“Okay,” Mycroft breathed, his eyes dusting over the table. “Okay, good. So, I don’t think I need to read that again,” he said, and Sherlock’s eyes landed on a black and white printout on the table, one that had been crumpled up and smoothed out again, like Mycroft had rejected the printout before opening his mind to the idea of it.

“What language is even that?” Dr. Holmes asked, gesturing to the printout, and Sherlock glanced back at it to find that he also couldn’t recognize the language.

He then noticed Eurus’ sketchbook lying next to the printout, complete with one of her pens.

“Try and concentrate,” Mycroft ordered, closing his eyes for a moment, and Sherlock tried to concentrate on Eurus the best he could. How sorry he was – how he would tell her that if Mycroft could actually contact her –

Mycroft opened his eyes from beside him.

“Eurus?” he called out. “Eurus, are you here?” he asked, but there was no obvious reply. “Eurus, it’s Mycroft, and Daddy and Sherlock.”

Suddenly, Sherlock could feel a presence behind him, watching him. He craned his head around, eyes scanning the living room behind him, but there was no one there.

“Eurus, if you’re in this room with us, I’m gonna have us all touch the glass,” Mycroft went on, bringing Sherlock and their father’s hands to the upturned glass on the table before them, placing their fingertips on the bottom of the glass before placing his own fingers on top of theirs. “Now if you’re in here, Eurus, I want you to move the glass for us. Even if it’s just a tiny bit, even if it’s just the tiniest –”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Mycroft!” their father groaned, obviously tired of waiting, even though they had just put their fingers on the glass.

“Okay, Eurus?” Mycroft asked, speaking over their father, and together the family waited for the glass to move.

Something about this brought up a memory, for Sherlock: a time where Mycroft was supposed to be babysitting Sherlock and Eurus, but he instead put on a scary movie for the two siblings to watch. The movie featured an Ouija board, and something about the concept of the heart-shaped piece of wood moving on its own combined with a particularly unnerving jump scare frightened Sherlock enough to accidentally wet himself. He remembered Mycroft being so angry at him for it, but he remembered Eurus watching the movie through to the end.

He wondered if doing this brought back this memory for him, as well.

Just as he thought this, he could feel the air shift around them.

“Shit,” Sherlock muttered, not moving his fingers from the glass. “What the hell?”

“What?” Dr. Holmes asked.

“You don’t feel that?” Sherlock replied.

“Don’t feel what?”

“Like, you don’t feel the air…flexing?” Sherlock asked, trying and failing to find a better word.

The two then looked at Mycroft, an uneasy smile spreading across his face. Apparently, this change in atmosphere was something to be desired.

And then the glass shot out from under their hands, sliding its way across the table, as if by magic.

“Wow! Yes!” Mycroft exclaimed, as Sherlock and their father stared at the glass in awe and confusion. “Thank you, Eurus! That was so good! Okay,” Mycroft said, reaching over and retrieving Eurus’ sketchbook, opening it up to a blank page as he spoke. “Now, Eurus, what I’d like for you to do is I’d like for you to show them what you did earlier,” he said, laying the pencil on the page, ready for someone – for Eurus – to use –

Even though she was dead.

Sherlock could feel his hands shaking as he forced himself to breathe next to Mycroft. He tried to watch the pencil on the open sketchbook, but it was dark and his eyes were filling with tears –

“Can you show them what you just did for me before?” Mycroft asked again, but Sherlock could barely breathe.

“Mycroft –” he started.

“She’s gonna do it,” Mycroft assured him, not even looking at him.

But their father did.

“That’s enough!” he snapped, reaching over and closing the sketchbook.

“What – _No!”_ Mycroft roared, frantically opening the book again, turning to a certain page specifically. “No, no, no! Listen! When I did this earlier, _this_ manifested on the page!” he shouted, turning to his father to show him the page in question. “I saw it!”

“Mycroft, what is it?” Sherlock struggled to ask, and Mycroft slammed the book back down on the table, page open to what she had apparently drew – what she had drew even though she was dead –

A car – driving down the road –

Sherlock in front –

Eurus in back –

“It’s Eurus!” Mycroft exclaimed, and their father made for the book again.

“Mycroft!” he shouted, trying to stop his son, but Mycroft spoke quickly, asking the air itself the question –

“Eurus, did you want to draw some more? You can keep going –” he said, but their father had had enough.

“Stop it! Stop it!” he roared, grabbing onto Mycroft’s wrist, but Mycroft instead grabbed onto Sherlock’s hand, placing it onto the table, along with their father’s.

“Okay, we need to keep our fingers touching –”

Sherlock hated this –

Mycroft hadn’t done anything like this since they were kids – since the paint thinner incident –

But he was doing it again – he was getting worse, even, maybe –

And it was all Sherlock’s fault – _he_ did this – just like he killed Eurus –

Eurus had even drawn the scene of the crime, trying to tell her brother how awful Sherlock had been – how he didn’t deserve to live –

“You are _scaring_ him!” Dr. Holmes shouted at Mycroft, as Sherlock wept beside him.

“No, I am not!” Mycroft shouted back, whipping around to Sherlock. “Sherlock – Sherlock, listen –” he said, trying to be soothing even as he ripped his arm out of his father’s grip.

“STOP IT!”

He wanted to go – he didn’t want to do this anymore – he wanted to go back upstairs – he wanted to go back to bed – he didn’t want to contact Eurus anymore – he didn’t want to be awake anymore –

“Listen to me,” Mycroft said, trying to soothe Sherlock, and for some reason Sherlock tried to get ahold of himself just long enough to listen. “This is no need to be scared. This is your sister –”

And just as he said that, a ceramic statue from the glass display cupboard behind them all shattered, right where Sherlock had felt Eurus’ presence just moments earlier.

“Mycroft –” Sherlock gasped in panic, but otherwise the entire family had stopped.

They spun around at the sound of the noise to see what it was, and then they, one by one, turned back, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Eurus? What’s wrong?” Mycroft asked after a moment.

And then, as if Eurus herself was trying to respond, the flame of the candle grew in a single moment, reaching the height of their heads before extinguishing itself completely.

Sherlock threw himself back at the sight of the sudden flame, watching as the candle reignited completely on its own. He watched as Dr. Holmes took the opportunity to check under the table, searching for the button or the switch that caused the candle to do what it did. Before he could tell Sherlock the verdict, however, they heard a low, quiet growling sound, coming from none other than Mycroft himself. His head had lowered when the flame reignited, but Sherlock had thought nothing of it – until now – until his brother started growling, groaning quietly to himself, for no reason at all –

Their father slowly straightened up to stare at his eldest son, and –

Mycroft opened his eyes, picking up his head and glancing around the room.

“Hello?” he asked, but it was no longer his voice.

_It was Eurus’._

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked quietly, stepping forward, tears filling his eyes once more. He was tired of this game – of this trick – of this guilt-tripping practical joke that Mycroft had decided to play on him in revenge for killing their sister –

But Mycroft continued.

“Mycroft? Mycroft?” Mycroft himself repeated, still in Eurus’ voice.

And it was her voice – not Mycroft’s impression of Eurus or playing a recording of Eurus – it was Eurus’ voice, coming from Mycroft’s mouth.

“I don’t like this,” Sherlock said, a lump growing in his throat. He didn’t like this at all – he hated it – “Dad, I don’t like this –”

“What’s happening?” Mycroft asked, still with Eurus’ voice.

“Please stop,” Sherlock begged his brother quietly.

“Mycroft, please, stop this,” their father said, but he wasn’t angry, not like he had been before. Maybe he was just exasperated? Or maybe…he was scared, too?

“Mycroft! What’s going on?!” Mycroft cried out, but Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure it was Mycroft, at this point. “Mycroft!”

Was it Eurus? Was it Eurus using Mycroft’s body?

“Please stop this,” Martin Holmes begged quietly.

“Please. You’re really freaking me out. _Please_ stop,” Sherlock tried to beg, fresh tears cascading down his face. “Dad, make it stop –”

“What’s happening? Why is everyone scared?” Mycroft (Eurus?) asked, sounding just as scared as Sherlock was. “WHY ARE YOU SCARING ME?!” Eurus shouted, and Sherlock started shouting back.

“Make it stop! Make it stop! MAKE IT FUCKING STOP!” he screamed, holding the palms of his hands to his temples, and their father ran from his place next to Mycroft. “Make it stop!”

“Where’s Mycroft?!” Eurus screamed.

“STOP IT! STOP IT NOW! Please stop!” Sherlock cried back at Mycroft – it was _Mycroft,_ not Eurus – as their father turned on the light in the room, flooding the two screaming siblings in the light.

“Mycroft? Sherlock? Sherlock, I’m scared!”

“Dad, make it stop!” Sherlock sobbed, and his father did, throwing water from a vase in the hallway in his son’s face.

Instantly, Mycroft’s entire demeanor changed as he reacted.

“What the hell? What are you doing?” he asked, looking up at his father, and then seeing Sherlock, sobbing hysterically, as if for the first time.

His father wrapped his arm around Sherlock and he instantly fell into the touch, tucking his head into his father’s neck, weeping.

And finally, Sherlock heard Mycroft, still soaking wet, ask the question that was circling the entire family at this point, and Sherlock only cried harder into his father’s shoulder at the sound of it:

“What happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off: I hope you're enjoying reading this! Secondly, since this is Sherlock's BROTHER playing the role of Annie (Peter's MOTHER), I had to change some things about the dream-conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft to make it work.
> 
> Also, it might be a good time to bring up WHY Paimon didn't work on Mycroft, since he is in fact, a male and Paimon wants a male host and nobody was around to protect Mycroft like Annie did for Peter and all that: we all know that Mycroft is smarter than Sherlock, as he never ceases to announce at random intervals throughout BBC Sherlock. When Ellen started doing the rituals necessary to possess Mycroft as a child, he was SUPER BIG BRAINED and was able to mentally maneuver around it, never actually getting possessed. He knew Mommy was trying to put people in his head, but not to what extent, just that he was fighting it day in and day out. This is why he claims he's a bad son in this chapter, because he couldn't just be little baby brain and get possessed like Mummy wanted him to. Either way though, he hated the rituals and hated how it made him feel, so he distanced himself from his mother, and when Sherlock (the second try) was born, he, afraid that she might also try to put people in his head (and slightly jealous that Sherlock might be a "better son" than Mycroft iykwim), worked hard to distance him from her, as well. Then enter Eurus, (the third and final try), and when Mycroft saw that his mother wasn't actively trying to put people in her, he finally backed off...and that's when Ellen Leigh Holmes started putting people in Eurus' head behind Mycroft's back. As for why nobody's trying to put Paimon into Mycroft and focusing solely on Sherlock over the course of the fic: Mycroft is still Big Brain, and Irene knows this because Ellen told her so, so she gave specific instructions to move Paimon from Eurus to Sherlock only, because if she even tried touching Mycroft with him, Mycroft would fight as hard as he did as a child, and Paimon would never get in. (I'll come back to this later around chapter 15/16) Sherlock's the easier target, and so they set up the ritual to target Sherlock.


	12. TWELVE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late posting - I completely thought that I posted this last night! Chapter 13 incoming!

Sherlock stayed up all night, after that, unable to sleep after what he had witnessed, Mycroft’s final question repeating over and over again in his mind.

_What happened?_

Sherlock didn’t know. He had options; theories that presented themselves not only as an afterthought, but not in the moments of that night, as Sherlock lived through them:

First, it was a prank. Mycroft was still angry with him – rightfully so – for killing Eurus and wanted to get back at him. His apology when Sherlock first woke up was just a ploy to lull him in a false sense of security and then, using a trick candle and a recording of Eurus, Mycroft forced Sherlock to breakdown. It was cruel and incredibly awful of Mycroft to do, but Sherlock deserved it. Sherlock lied about the party and didn’t fight back when Mycroft told him to take Eurus, and then, at the party itself, Sherlock left her alone to chase after John and let her eat the cake without checking the ingredients – he even pointed her in the direction of the damned cake! He practically shoved the cake into her mouth, just so he could _maybe_ sleep with John, _maybe._ And Mycroft knew it – he knew it was all Sherlock’s fault, so he was making him pay for it. So he drew the picture in Eurus’ sketchbook himself, used some sort of strings or switches or something to move the cup and break the ceramic in the display cupboard, used a trick candle instead of a real one to make it look like Eurus was trying to connect with them, and used a recording of Eurus to make it sound like Eurus was speaking through Mycroft. However: Sherlock had never heard Eurus scream like that, not even when she was dying in the backseat of Mycroft’s car. So how could he have gotten that recording? That’s where this theory fell apart: Eurus’ voice was too real, and the way Mycroft looked at Sherlock after it was all over almost completely disproved that this was anything close to a joke.

The second theory was the one that probably scared Sherlock the most: Mycroft was getting bad again. He had gotten bad before, back shortly after Eurus was born. He got up and walked around in his sleep, he completely dissociated during his waking hours, he talked to himself under his breath, muttering words that made no sense to Sherlock. He tried not to think of those days, but sometimes, times like now, he couldn’t control it. Back then, it came to a head with the paint thinner incident – after that, for a long while, Mycroft couldn’t be left alone with either of his siblings, and their parents had to lock Mycroft’s bedroom door at night. Eurus never remembered that time, but Sherlock remembered the fear of back then, the same fear he was feeling right now. If Mycroft was getting bad again, what would stop him, this time? Would he try to kill him, again? Would he succeed this time? Sherlock couldn’t think about it for too long without forgetting how to breathe.

Or, finally: it could have been real. Maybe Mycroft _was_ a medium of some kind, or was trying to be in order to reach Eurus. Maybe he tried and it went wrong. Maybe he tried and it went wrong because of Sherlock’s presence in the room. But that opened a whole other can of worms that Sherlock wasn’t sure he could even comprehend: one that involved ghosts and spirits and life beyond death; things that Sherlock had never even considered before. Up until now, all he knew was science: everyone’s brain held their consciousness, and once the brain died, their consciousness no longer existed. Now, though…what if all of that was wrong? What if Eurus was somehow still with them?

He was still considering these theories in his head at school the next day.

“Our country has had many ups and downs, economically speaking.”

Sherlock’s teacher went on, nothing but background noise in the teenage boy’s ears. Normally, the teacher’s lectures put Sherlock to sleep, but today he watched a light dance on the floor by the teacher’s feet. It was an average light – like one someone would make if their tilted their phone screen at a light and reflected it at the wall – but it served as a focal point for Sherlock to stare at as he continued to mull over last night’s events.

“We’ve talked about the struggles during the 1800s compared to the fall of 1929 in an era that became known appropriately as the Great Depression…”

Suddenly, the light broke apart into a ring, growing rapidly and spreading itself along the walls and ceiling of the room.

Sherlock’s head whipped up and he nearly spun around in his chair, watching the light come back together just as it reached the window, as if it had decided to leave through it.

“For a decade, we suffered through many, many hardships,” his teacher continued, too wrapped up in his lecture to even register Sherlock’s sudden movement, as the light flew back into the room, glimmering in the glass display case next to Sherlock’s desk.

“In 1929, Wall Street had been going so well that when it finally crashed because of the Great Boom…”

Sherlock glanced around the classroom, wondering who was shining their phone’s reflection across the room, but no one had their phone out.

No one noticed the light, at all.

“…it caused a huge decline in the economy. So much so that it caused food lines...”

Sherlock looked back at the display case, looking for the light but instead coming face-to-face with his own reflection.

He looked terrible. Eyes sunken in, face paler than it should’ve been, an obvious amount of loss-of-weight had caused his face to appear thinner than it had in years. However, Sherlock was smiling at himself in the reflection, despite it all.

Except Sherlock wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t smiling at all. He hadn’t smiled since Eurus died.

So why was his reflection smiling? Not just smiling, but smirking?

_Click._

Sherlock sprung out of his seat at the noise that he instantly knew that only he could hear, nearly falling over in the effort, startling not only the entire class, but the teacher as well.

“Uh…yes, Sherlock?” his teacher asked, surprised that his lecture had just been so rudely interrupted.

“Um, I’m sorry. I have to go to the bathroom,” Sherlock mumbled, quickly covering for his behavior, and the teacher nodded.

“Um, of course. Take the pass,” he said, gesturing to the hall pass on the door, which Sherlock quickly grabbed on his way out. “As I was saying…” the teacher started up again just as the door closed behind Sherlock.

As he made his way down the hallway to the bathroom, he could feel the lump in his throat, his chest beginning to heave, fresh tears blurring his vision.

Maybe Mycroft wasn’t getting bad again.

Maybe it was Sherlock.

* * *

Mycroft was working on an auditorium miniature when the phone rang. Paint brush still in hand, Mycroft picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Can you guess who just called me from school in _complete_ hysterics?” Dr. Holmes hissed in Mycroft’s ear in lieu of an actual greeting, and Mycroft’s brain raced for an answer.

“Eurus?” he mumbled, his mind still on the events that had transpired the night before.

 _“What?”_ his father asked, and Mycroft quickly shook his head. No, it wasn’t Eurus – it wasn’t Eurus.

“Uh, nothing. What happened?” he asked, trying to focus on what his father was saying.

“Sherlock just called me, Mycroft, terrified, crying in the halls, convinced he’s being threatened by some…vengeful spirit,” his father informed Mycroft.

Oh. This was interesting.

“Why does he think he’s being threatened?” Mycroft asked, despite how pissed his father sounded, and his father only got angrier in response.

“Listen to me, Mycroft. I have a son to protect –”

“What does that mean?” Mycroft asked, taking offense. Was he not his father’s son, as well? What about _him?_ Who protected _him?_

“It means that _that’s_ what I’m worried about right now. _That’s_ how I’m proceeding –”

“Hey, don’t talk to me like this – he’s my brother, too –” Mycroft started before he heard the distinct click of his father hanging up on his eldest son. Mycroft rose from his desk, quickly called him back, snapping at his father before the man could even speak: “Do _not_ hang up on me again! I am _not_ sleepwalking anymore, Dad. Do you understand?” he asked, then, as payback, hung up on his father before he could answer.

He had to get back to work. He had a deadline coming up – he _had_ to get back to work.

Because he was sane. He was perfectly sane. He wasn’t schizophrenic and he wasn’t sleepwalking, he wasn’t going to hurt Sherlock and he wasn’t going to get kicked out again –

The phone rang again.

Mycroft chose to ignore it, sitting back down at his desk, holding a miniature chair together as the glue holding it together set.

“At the tone, please record your voice message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press pound for more options,” the automated answering machine’s voice rang out from downstairs. The machine beeped, and Mycroft expected to hear his father leaving a message.

It wasn’t his father.

“Mycroft, hi! This is Patrick at the Archer Gallery. Um, I was just calling first to see how you’re doing, how you’re family’s doing. We’ve all been thinking about you and just worrying about you and hoping you’re okay. You guys have been in our constant thoughts and prayers.” Mycroft quietly scoffed from his room. The Holmes had been getting calls like this ever since his mother died, and even more so when Eurus was killed, but Mycroft knew the real reason they called. “And then also, uh, we just wanted to, well, to say first, if you need us to postpone the show or push back the date, it’s obviously more than okay.” Mycroft’s hands started to shake. Why would they need to postpone the show, for him? He was _fine,_ he was doing fine – why did _everyone_ think he wasn’t fine?! “And if not, uh, we just wanna call and see if we could help in any way or offer –”

The miniature chair snapped, completely falling apart from Mycroft’s tight grip.

And Mycroft, one that used to be so calm, so put together under pressure, finally had enough.

It had taken numerous months for Mycroft to build each and every miniature that was in his bedroom, and ten minutes to destroy it all. They weren’t real places. They weren’t real things. Just cardboard and particleboard and paint and glue – things holding together things, easily broken when put under enough pressure. Pressure like Mycroft’s fists smashing the roofs of his masterpieces, pressure like his hands tearing walls of rooms apart, pressure like his feet stomping the pieces of his work to nothing. When he was done, he crumpled to the floor of his room, calming himself down, surrounded by the scattered pieces of what he had once called art.

About two hours later, he heard Dr. Holmes return home with Sherlock, but he made no move to get up. Instead, he let his father find him.

“Mycroft? What’s that smell –” he started to ask, turning the corner into Mycroft’s room, stopping himself once he saw the carnage. Mycroft had noticed the house had started to smell a little funny, but he only suspected a dead mouse was hiding somewhere in the vents. He opened his mouth to say this, but then he realized that his father wasn’t thinking about the smell, anymore. “What the fuck happened here?” he asked.

“I didn’t feel like looking at it anymore,” Mycroft deadpanned.

His father’s eye twitched, and Mycroft expected him to kick his son out then and there, but he surprisingly didn’t, his face settling into silent resignation.

Mycroft knew this face. He wore it whenever Mycroft would have an episode, years and years ago, back when Mummy was putting people in his head, back when he would sleepwalk and find his way into the paint thinner.

Mycroft was losing his mind, again. And nothing Mycroft could say or do could convince his father otherwise.


	13. THIRTEEN.

The evening was unexpectedly quiet in the Holmes house. Mycroft kept clear of his room, even making dinner for the first time in weeks for his family. He wanted to be good, he wanted to be better – even if he was the only one who thought he was those things of himself, now. But Mycroft wouldn’t have destroyed his work, not ever. So what was that about? It was so unlike him that, for a minute, Mycroft doubted himself.

But he was lucid, he’d been lucid for _years_ , so what was going on?

Since no one in the family had gotten much sleep the night before, thanks to Mycroft, everyone turned in for the night before eight o’clock, and although his father didn’t immediately kick Mycroft out of the house, he did suggest that Mycroft spend the night on the couch in the living room. He had assured his son that it was only because he didn’t want Mycroft sleeping (and perhaps sleepwalking, though he didn’t say that explicitly) in a room that had so much risk of injury. Mycroft, not wanting to upset his father anymore, agreed to sleep on the sofa, promising to clean up the mess in the morning.

He waited on the couch, pretending to read a book, while he listened to the rest of his family wrap up their nighttime routines and retreat to their bedrooms before starting his own, though. He knew it was best to stay out of everyone’s way, tonight especially.

As Mycroft gathered his blanket and pillow from his bedroom to take downstairs, however, Mycroft heard something coming for Eurus’ room. It was faint – scratching, like a baby mouse was stuck in the wall – but it was something.

He knew he should have left it alone. He _needed_ to leave it alone, tonight. He had already done enough damage; he didn’t need to make any more.

But Mycroft found himself wandering into her room at the end of the hallway, anyway.

After the séance the night before, Martin Holmes had taken Eurus’ sketchbook and put it back in her room, on the foot of her bed. Mycroft knew this because he had seen his father do it, himself. Therefore, Mycroft knew for a fact that the book had not been open the day before.

Not like it was, now; lying open, one of Eurus’ drawings on display.

Then, even though there was no windows open in Eurus’ room, and no breeze in the house to speak of, the page flipped, revealing an empty set of pages.

If Mycroft knew anything about Eurus, it was that she was linear; completely predictable, that way. When she drew, she never opened her sketchbook to a random page and began drawing – each and every one of her sketchbook had a clear first page and last page – any blank pages were just pages she hadn’t reached, yet. Mycroft knew this when he presented her spirit with the sketchbook last night. The drawing of the car was the last picture in her sketchbook.

But the drawing that the sketchbook itself seemed to turn the page on, even though Mycroft didn’t see it clearly, was definitively _not_ car-shaped.

_It was a new drawing._

Heart hammering in his chest, Mycroft stepped closer, watching as lines began to appear on the page _completely by themselves._

It was a face – a head. With curly hair…angular cheekbones…

…and large X’s scribbled over each eye.

Sherlock thought the spirit was vengeful. He thought it was targeting him, threatening him specifically – he had told his father that just today.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft breathed.

This was about Sherlock.

And this was bad.

* * *

Meanwhile, Sherlock laid in his bed, ignoring the smell of whatever the hell had died in the walls, just about to fall asleep, when –

_Click._

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, for a moment afraid of what he would find.

Everything seemed normal at first glance, until Sherlock’s eyes truly focused, and then he could see her, standing completely still in the corner, eyes fixed on him. She was there – head still on body – wearing Mycroft’s old sweatshirt. Like she had never left – like she had never died.

Sherlock slowly lifted his head from his pillow.

“Eurus?” he said quietly, speaking her name into the night.

But Eurus didn’t reply; she didn’t even move. She continued to stare at him, eyes wide, until her head lowered, rolling forward and suddenly off of her shoulders, rolling across the room like –

A ball.

Sherlock’s old blue and green basketball came to a complete stop on his carpet, like it had simply fallen off of his dresser or something.

But the ball was never on the dresser. It had always been on the floor in the middle of the room.

Eyes wide, he glanced back up to where Eurus had stood, but her body was gone, as if it had never been there, just as his ears registered the sound of growling. He glanced across the room, and found Redbeard, the family dog, the dog who Sherlock had loved for years, growling in the doorway, growling _at Sherlock._

Redbeard had never done this before, and it seemed like Redbeard was fully aware of this, too, for he whimpered as he growled, as if his body was fighting against his mind.

Sherlock was still staring at Redbeard when he felt someone – some _thing_ – grab a fistful of Sherlock’s hair, pulling him back onto his pillow.

Sherlock thrashed in his bed, trying to get himself free, but another hand joined the first, seeming to be coming from his headboard, wrapping its fingers around Sherlock’s chin, where the first hand joined it. The two hands began yanking, pulling at Sherlock’s head, as if they were trying to snap his neck – not just snap his neck, but remove his head entirely –

Just like Sherlock did to Eurus –

Sherlock screamed, kicking and twisting in his bed, trying to free himself of their grip, only hearing Redbeard barking from the doorway, until –

The door slammed on Redbeard, causing the poor dog to yowl in pain, and suddenly Mycroft was in the room, the hands completely vanishing from Sherlock’s head, as if they never were there at all.

“Sherlock? Oh my god, Sherlock! What’s wrong – what’s happening?!” Mycroft asked as Sherlock sat up in bed, chest heaving.

“What are you doing?!” Sherlock shouted at his brother.

“What do you mean?” Mycroft asked, completely confused, a feat that Sherlock had never been able to do pull, until now.

“You were pulling on my head!” Sherlock shouted.

“What? No I wasn’t, I just came in! You were screaming – what happened?” Mycroft asked, taking a step toward his brother.

“I saw Eurus in the corner and then you started trying to pull my head off!” Sherlock cried. This was worse than the paint thinner incident – that was just some liquid, it wasn’t bad – this was painful. Why did Mycroft want him dead _so badly?!_

“Oh, Sherlock, I would never do that to you; are you crazy? Please, Sherlock,” Mycroft tried to assure him, tried to put his hands on his shoulders, but Sherlock quickly shook him off. “What corner did you see Eurus?” Mycroft asked, and Sherlock finally let him place his hand on his shoulder, trying catch his breath. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t even gesture – all he could do was stare at his brother, wanting to know _why_ this was happening to them. “Sherlock, listen to me,” Mycroft went on, placing his other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock kept his eyes locked on his brother’s. “I don’t know what’s happening or what you just saw, but I am stopping this,” Mycroft promised him. “Do _not_ tell Dad what you just said to me. Do _not_ , okay? Because it is not true. Something _is_ happening and I’m the only one who can stop it. Do you understand? I’m the _only one_ who can fix this.”

Sherlock nodded quickly. It made sense. Mycroft had always been his big brother, despite the paint thinner incident and the anger Mycroft felt toward him for Eurus’ death. This was Mycroft, the brother that always took care of Sherlock, the brother that Sherlock loved, despite everything. Sherlock would probably never say it out loud, but Mycroft was the smarter one, between the two of them. If something was happening, something big, Mycroft would be the one to fix it.

* * *

Mycroft took the sketchbook from Eurus’ room, the one that now had multiple pages of a crying, eyeless Sherlock drawn upon them, and took it to the fireplace downstairs.

This had started with him, trying to bridge the gap between the real world and the spiritual one, and something bad had come through, something pretending to be Eurus. Mycroft wasn’t a medium – not a real one – so he didn’t even realize until it was too late – until whatever he _had_ let in started targeting Sherlock. Now Mycroft had to end this, quickly, before it was too late.

Irene had said that the sketchbook was the link, connecting Eurus (or whatever was pretending to be Eurus) to the physical world. Logically, if Mycroft destroyed the sketchbook, he would destroy the link, and the spirit could no longer manifest. It was simple.

He had to do it. Because this was not Eurus, he reminded himself.

Eurus would not be vengeful. She would not be violent. She would not want to hurt Sherlock, even if his negligence _did_ ultimately end her life.

So this was not Eurus.

But it didn’t keep Mycroft from thinking that he was destroying the real Eurus’ link, as well.

But he had to. Eurus would understand. Eurus would do the same thing, if the roles were reversed.

“I’m sorry, Eurus,” Mycroft whispered anyway, and tossed the book into the fireplace.

As soon as the flames touched the book, Mycroft instantly felt a heat on his arm, one too close to just be the fire.

It was his sleeve.

His sleeve was on fire – his arm was on fire!

He tried to pat it out, but it wasn’t working – the fire was growing, crawling up his arm, to his elbow, to his shoulder –

He didn’t touch the flames himself – how did he get on fire?!

_The sketchbook._

With his arm still aflame, Mycroft grabbed the fire poker, pulling the book out from the flames and stomping it out. As soon as the book’s fire died, the flame on Mycroft’s arm did, too.

The link was stronger than just the book.

It was going to be a lot harder to destroy it than Mycroft thought.

* * *

The next morning, after Sherlock left for school and their father left for work, Mycroft snuck out of the house and drive straight to Irene’s apartment.

He rang the doorbell,

then knocked on the door,

and soon he was banging on it, calling Irene’s name.

“Irene? Irene, please, I need to talk to you! Irene, I _really_ need to ask you a question,” he begged, hammering his fist on the door. _“Irene!”_

He needed answers, and he needed them now. He needed to know how to destroy the sketchbook without killing himself, he needed to protect Sherlock, he needed to know what he had _let into the house –_

But Irene wasn’t home.

She wasn’t home – like she had vanished off the face of the earth, unable to help.

Unable, or unwilling.

Put out, Mycroft stepped away from the door, but not without looking down at the welcome mat, the one that he had commented upon when he first visited Irene at her apartment.

Mycroft had said that his mother used to embroider things just like that.

What if…

No.

Absolutely not – impossible –

Mycroft Holmes sprinted back to the car.

Something told him he was running out of time.

* * *

Meanwhile, Sherlock sat outside for lunch, hoping the natural light would help him. The boy felt awful. He was tired, he was scared, and felt like he was slowly dying. His lunch laid on a cafeteria tray in front of him, but he didn’t even have the energy to eat, anymore. He heard his classmates behind him, laughing, talking, eating, but it barely scratched the surface of his mind.

He was too worried about what was going on at home.

Sherlock knew their father didn’t believe Mycroft, but something in Sherlock did. If Mycroft said that something was happening – something bigger than the Holmes family themselves – then Sherlock believed him. And if Mycroft said he could fix it, then Sherlock believed that, too. He almost even woke Mycroft up that morning before he left to school, to tell him that he believed in him and that he was sorry for everything that had happened between them and with Eurus, but he didn’t.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock glanced up from the space in the middle distance he had been staring into, trying to figure out if what he had just heard was real.

“SHERLOCK!”

It wasn’t Eurus’ voice. Maybe that meant it was real?

Sherlock scanned the area, trying to find the source of the voice.

_“SHERLOCK!”_

Sherlock finally found the source: a woman, standing across the street from the gate of the school – not on school property, but close enough. She wore a white dress and was draped in some kind of red scarf. And she stood there, screaming his name.

“I EXPEL YOU!”

Sherlock sat up straighter in his seat. _Expel_ him? Sherlock turned around in his seat, half of him hoping that she was yelling at a _different_ Sherlock. But she wasn’t – she was yelling at him.

“SATONY! DEGONY! EPARIGON!”

That wasn’t English. Just like how the printout Mycroft had supposedly read from to contact Eurus’ spirit wasn’t English.

 _“SHERLOCK!_ GET! _OUT!”_ the woman hollered.

Again, Sherlock looked around. Was _anybody_ hearing this? Was anybody _seeing_ this?

_“SHERLOCK!”_

Sherlock turned back to the woman.

Mycroft had to fix this. And he had to fix it _soon._


	14. FOURTEEN.

Once Mycroft returned home, he raced to his parents room, suddenly grateful that his father never moved the boxes of his mother’s things up to the attic like he had said he would before Eurus died. He knew exactly what box to look in, and what for: he opened one to reveal cloth, embroidered placemats; one for each of the Holmes children:

 _Mycroft_ in red.

 _Sherlock_ in green.

 _Eurus_ in blue, made before their mother knew that Eurus was a girl. Luckily, Eurus had been a unisex name, so the name stuck –

The embroidery was the same, though. Exactly the same.

Mentally kicking himself, Mycroft moved on to a box labeled MUM’S BOOKS, pulling out the _Notes on Spiritualism_ book that he had found the note addressed to him in to uncover a book with a design embossed on the dark hardcover.

Mycroft knew the design well – it surrounded him for nearly his entire life. Their mother had the design – the symbol – on a necklace that she was buried with; she doodled it on occasion when she was deep in thought; she had even embroidered it on each of the Holmes’ children’s placemats –

He opened the book, flipping through the book, hoping for answers but only finding more symbols – the entire book was written in some language that Mycroft couldn’t even _read,_ let alone understand.

He cast the book aside – he didn’t have time for this –

The next book, _Invocations_ , contained a slip of paper posing as a book mark, which Mycroft immediately flipped to. Upon removing the slip of paper, Mycroft was treated with an image of a man riding a camel, holding a crystal ball and a staff that contained a hand pointing northwest, with three heads attached to his belt. Mycroft looked away from the picture, pleased to find that this book was not only in English, but had a passage highlighted:

 _When successfully invoked, King Paimon will possess the most_ vulnerable _host. Only when the ritual is_ complete _will King Paimon be locked into his ordained host. Once locked in, a new ritual is required to_ unlock _the possession._

Possession.

If Mycroft was right (and he usually was), the séance wasn’t a séance.

It was a ritual.

Mycroft continued searching for more highlighted passages, but only found a single underlined sentence at the bottom of the page:

_King Paimon is a male, thus covetous of a male human body._

It all came crashing down on Mycroft in that moment.

Mycroft had been right, all along, even from the beginning. Their mother _had_ been trying to put people in Mycroft’s head. Not just people, but someone specific – this Paimon person. She probably would have tried to do it to Sherlock, too, but Mycroft, having some idea of what she was doing, constantly stood in her way. So she gave up – gave up or moved on –

Until Mycroft started the ritual, locking him onto a vulnerable host.

And Mycroft didn’t even have to question who Paimon locked onto.

Mycroft turned the page, finding another image, this time of a person sitting on a pile of treasure, captioned _Riches to the Conjurer._

Who was the conjurer? Was it Mycroft? Or was it –

The next book Mycroft picked up was a photo album, not dark brown one that held all of the baby pictures, but a white, thinner one. Mycroft opened the book.

First, there were pictures of men, each picture older than the last, but as the pages went on, Mycroft found pictures of his mother. She was surrounded by people, people that Mycroft had never met before, or people that he maybe _had_ met, once – just once – at his mother’s funeral.

Mycroft then tore through the pages, eyes taking in each person’s face but for a second, searching for someone in particular.

Because it wasn’t a coincidence – it couldn’t have been, because _the embroidery was the same –_

And there she was.

Irene, standing with his mother in multiple pictures. Smiling, hugging, laughing, because they were friends.

_They were friends._

Mycroft flipped to the next page, where he was baffled to find pictures of baby Eurus. In one of the photos, she was with her mother, drinking from a bottle, black herbs stewed into her milk. Mycroft suddenly remembered their mother trying to feed Sherlock a similar bottle, but Mycroft specifically went out and bought baby formula and kept it under his bed, mixing it himself and switching the two bottles whenever he noticed his mother feeding Sherlock the stuff when she wasn’t looking.

He had protected Sherlock from their mother…but not Eurus.

He turned to the last page, finding pictures of a group of people surrounding his mother, dressed in a white dress and veil, as they showered golden coins upon her.

Ellen Leigh Holmes was the conjurer. And Irene was her friend.

Mycroft choked back a sob, covering his mouth.

He had been tricked. Irene – not even Irene, but his own mother – had tricked him. He didn’t protect Eurus enough when she was an infant, and he called Paimon on Sherlock now, as an adult.

He had tried so hard to protect them, nearly killed the three of them in the effort, but now he had failed them both.

And Mycroft, as smart as he was – as smart as he claimed to be – didn’t even know.

* * *

Sherlock slowly wandered through the halls of his school, barely glancing at the other students as they passed by, still shaken by what he had seen and heard.

Who was that woman? Why was she shouting at him? Why was she telling him to get out? What if she found her way into the school? If she found him _at_ the building, she could certainly find him _within_ it, as well, couldn’t she?

She could, if Sherlock was sure she was real, which he wasn’t.

He thought to call Mycroft. But what could he say? That there _might_ have been a woman yelling at him from across the street? That would just drive him to the school, and he was _supposed_ to be taking care of this –

Suddenly, a ring of light travelled down the hallway, similar to the one Sherlock had encountered yesterday, and came together, seeming to go through the door of Sherlock’s next class.

Sherlock froze.

This is how it started, yesterday. The light, and then the reflection of Sherlock that _wasn’t the reflection of Sherlock,_ and then the click –

He couldn’t call his father. His father would only blame Mycroft – maybe even kick him out, if he felt like he had to. He couldn’t kick Mycroft out – Mycroft said he was the only one who could fix it –

Sherlock saw his teacher through the window of the door, and the two met eyes. After a moment of staring at each other, Sherlock’s teacher raised his hand, beckoning Sherlock to come inside the classroom. Sherlock was already late; if he turned around and walked away right now, his father would definitely be called. He was caught – he couldn’t call anybody, or even text them, now.

So Sherlock went to class.

* * *

Between appointments at work, Dr. Martin Holmes started a new email to his colleague, Robert Mason. He needed a second opinion about Mycroft, a real second opinion, not one of the many articles that he had already read between various appointments throughout the day. He hated to out his son like this – not only his son, but out his entire family as being anything less than perfectly fine, despite the circumstances – but he needed the help. Dr. Mason was one of the best psychiatrists in the building, and probably the only person he could trust enough to come to with the subject of his family.

He simply used Mycroft’s name for the subject of the email, then typed his message to his colleague:

_Hi Bob,_

_I hesitate to write this, but I’m worried that Mycroft (my eldest son) might be on the verge of (or in the MIDDLE of)_

He paused, not knowing exactly how to explain it, even with years of psychiatry knowledge at his disposal. It wasn’t a psychotic break – his son was not psychotic; he claimed to be completely lucid – and the schizophrenia diagnosis he had gotten as a child had been retracted –

It was then that a new email arrived in his inbox, one from Spring Blossom Cemetery, entitled _STATUS OF CLAIM for Ellen Leigh’s site_.

Ah, yes, his wife’s desecrated grave site – with the death of Eurus and Sherlock’s increasing depression and Mycroft’s potential loss of sanity, he had nearly forgotten about the fact that someone had apparently dug up Ellen’s body.

Sighing, he opened the email:

_Dr. Holmes:_

_As promised, we wanted to forward you info re: the status of the insurance claim for the damages sustained by Ellen Leigh’s grave site. We’ve attached the claim here, and below are photos we took of the gravesite on the day after the incident._

As Dr. Holmes looked over the pictures illustrating the tragedy that he alone carried, he pondered, maybe for the first time, of who their right mind would dig up his wife?

* * *

Mycroft, photo album still in hand, looked up at the attic access door, located in the hallway ceiling. Most of his mother’s things were in the boxes in his parent’s room, but perhaps there were some things – perhaps there were answers as to how to stop Paimon – in the attic?

Determined, Mycroft grabbed the hook that was always used to grab the chain for the attic door, and pulled the door open. Immediately, a burst of the rotting smell that the Holmes family had been getting to know over the past few days was unleashed, along with the flies that the smell had attracted, flying into Mycroft’s face. Sputtering and gagging, Mycroft knew that he had found the source of the smell, whatever it was.

He pulled the ladder down and, still swatting at flies, climbed up.

The smell and the swarm of flies only got worse as Mycroft entered the attic.

Covering his nose and mouth with one hand, Mycroft grabbed the flashlight the family kept up there in the other, turning it on and looking around. Half of him looked for something – anything – that might point Mycroft in the right direction, and the other half searched for the source of the smell. He shone the light around the attic, until the light landed on something he couldn’t ignore: a pair of bloated, blackened feet and legs, a lit candle just between the knees, the corner of the room.

Mycroft lowered his hand, stepping forward, closer to the legs to find that they were attached to a body, a body wearing a white dress with the symbol that had followed him all of his life sewn upon it. He took a step closer and saw the arms of the body, crawling with maggots and black with rot, and –

And no head.

Mycroft gasped, taking a step back, bending over to dry heave – he hadn’t even eaten that day – he had nothing to throw up –

The dress was similar to the one his mother wore in the picture. The symbols on the dress matched the one that she carried with her every day that she had been alive.

Mycroft straightened up, slowly turning back to the body, forcing himself to look. He shined the light in the corner one last time, and found what he was looking for.

The symbol on the slanted roof of the attic.

Painted in blood.

* * *

“…so everyone feels justified. Iphigenia’s murder was commanded by the gods.”

Sherlock tried to pay attention, despite the anxiousness rising within him. He stared at his teacher, thinking, _hoping_ , that if he just stared at his teacher, if he just payed attention, if he didn’t focus on the light that he _knew_ was somewhere in this room, maybe it would leave him alone, today. Just for today, just long enough for Mycroft to fix it –

“So, really, Agamemnon had no choice…”

Sherlock tried to focus, he really did, but it was like he was trying to listen to his teacher through a tunnel – Sherlock could barely catch half of what his teacher was saying, and didn’t even have the energy to truly comprehend it. And the second his mind wandered, the second he took his eyes away from his teacher –

_Click._

Sherlock glanced around the room, confirming what he already knew. Nobody could hear the clicks but him.

_Click._

Sherlock spun around in his seat, half-expecting for Eurus to be standing there, whether she was real or just a part of his imagination.

_Click._

Sherlock spun around the other way, having heard it in his other ear, this time, but she wasn’t behind him – she wasn’t behind him because she wasn’t real – she was dead –

_Click._

It was as if the Eurus was taking up permanent residence in his ears, in his head, playing these tricks on him, single-handedly driving him mad –

_Click._

As Sherlock faced forward again, part of him wished he was dead, just to make this stop –

Suddenly, his arm shot straight up in the air, completely against his will, his fingers bent and stretched in a way that hurt him –

But he couldn’t put his arm back down.

“Sherlock,” his teacher called, having noticed his student’s hand was raised during his lecture, but then he looked at Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock, what’s wrong?” he asked, and out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock noticed John Watson – John fucking Watson, the boy who Sherlock had believed he might’ve had a chance with once, what felt like years ago – and who knows? Maybe they might’ve if the party didn’t turn into a disaster, if Eurus hadn’t died, if Sherlock hadn’t gone fucking _crazy_ – turn around in his seat, his eyes widening at the sight of him.

But Sherlock couldn’t look at him.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” his teacher asked, growing increasingly panicked by Sherlock’s state, but when Sherlock tried to speak – tried to tell his teacher what was wrong – he could only emit the sound of a –

_Click._

Sherlock Holmes couldn’t move.

He could only keep his arm in the air, and could feel his face contorted in some way that he couldn’t fix, couldn’t correct, couldn’t fight –

“Can he breathe?” he heard John ask no one in particular, and he wanted to answer, he so desperately wanted to tell him that something was wrong – that something had changed when Eurus died – that he wished he would have talked to John sooner, because now it was far too late –

Victor Trevor, his best friend, the friend he had pushed away after Eurus died, turned around in his seat, along with every other kid in Sherlock’s class, and Sherlock instantly regretted pushing him away, wished he was still just the stoner that he used to be –

“Sherlock, what are you doing, man?” he asked, and Sherlock wanted to tell him, wanted to shout that he didn’t know, that he wished he wasn’t doing it, that he had no control –

He had to fight it. Mycroft was fixing it, he just had to fight whatever was happening, just like Mycroft was –

Sherlock tried to move, tried to force himself through whatever was keeping him in place, and brought his head down upon his desk, shaking in his seat. He heard John Watson shout, and maybe he saw him make a move to get up, to help Sherlock, but Sherlock pulled his head back up.

Except it wasn’t Sherlock who pulled his head back up.

He felt blood pooling in his mouth, having bit his tongue somewhere when he slammed his head on the desk.

Pain. The pain somehow helped – if he could hurt himself again – hurt himself enough – the pain would snap him out of whatever was going on – like taking a cold shower to wake up his senses –

He could do it, he just had to move – one more big push –

He slammed his face on his desk again.

Blood spurted everywhere as Sherlock broke his nose, and then Sherlock was screaming.

He screamed as he jumped out of his desk, nearly falling on the desk behind him, scrambling backwards as his classmates cleared out of the way, screaming as he fell on the floor, kicking and shaking and thrashing, as if trying to physically fight whatever the hell had been forcing him to stay still – forcing him not to speak – forcing him to keep his arm in the air –

He continued screaming, unable to stop, not even thinking of the rest of the class, not even caring that Victor Trevor was probably considering never speaking to him again; not even caring that John Watson would never date him, now; not even caring that fucking Philip Anderson was recording the entire thing –

All Sherlock could do was scream.

* * *

Mycroft couldn’t stand to be in the house. Not with their mother upstairs – or was it their mother? Mycroft had no idea. He couldn’t stay in the house, though, and he knew that.

So he stood outside in the rain, under Eurus’ treehouse, the white photo album in hand, waiting for their father to come home.

He would explain what was going on, he would tell him what was happening to Sherlock, and he would put things right.

Just as he promised Sherlock he would.

* * *

It was after his last session of the day, but Dr. Martin Holmes did not want to return home. The office was the best place for him, these days; it was quiet, it had order, and, as much as he hated to admit it, it didn’t have Mycroft. He loved his son, he did, but even the years of psychiatric experience he had never prepared him for that boy. First there was the incident that made his school call DCF on him and his wife, then the schizophrenia diagnosis, then the paint thinner incident, then the years of medications and therapy, and then… _this._ Eurus’ death had affected them all greatly, but nothing like this. This was on another level.

And whatever he was doing, whatever he was saying, it was hurting Sherlock, and Martin Holmes could see Sherlock’s mental state deteriorating just as much as Mycroft’s, if not more.

As much as he hated to admit it, maybe his wife had been right in kicking him out those years ago.

Maybe Martin Holmes needed to do the same. It was in Sherlock’s best interest, after all, just as it had been last time. He was only keeping his family safe.

The ringing of his office phone cut off his thoughts, and he quickly picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Dr. Martin Holmes?” the voice on the other end asked.

“Yes, it is,” he said, dreading whatever was coming next. Was it about the burial site? Was it about Sherlock? Was it about Mycroft?

“Hello, this is Principal Hudson from West High School; I’m sorry to call you at work but there’s been an incident involving your son, Sherlock –”

Dr. Holmes did not need to hear anything more, after that.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Dr. Martin Holmes was in the car, an unconscious Sherlock in the backseat, driving back home.

From what he was told, Sherlock had an outburst in the middle of class, which ended with him slamming his face into his own desk, breaking his nose. After that, the boy kept screaming, not saying any words, not even attempting to calm himself, just screaming to the point that he had to be sedated. The doctors at the hospital Sherlock was sent to kept asking about a history of seizures when Dr. Holmes arrived to pick him up, but he assured them that Sherlock had never had a seizure in his entire life. They informed him of a little bit of marijuana in his system but no other drugs, but frankly Dr. Holmes couldn’t have cared less.

Dr. Holmes looked at Sherlock in the rearview mirror. His boy – his youngest boy, now his youngest living child – was hurt – had hurt _himself_ , and not in the typical fashion – for reasons that he could not explain, but knew it had something to do with Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft.

He was bringing him home to Mycroft – the one person Dr. Holmes didn’t want go to. But where else could they go?

Dr. Holmes returned his eyes to the road, just in time to slam on the breaks before he ran a red light. The car jolted to a stop, just as another car sped past them, nearly grazing the front bumper of the family car. If Dr. Holmes hadn’t seen the light in time, hadn’t stopped right when he did – the oncoming car would have probably taken his life.

And just that – the thought of _another_ accident, _another_ death that would have probably left Sherlock completely alone with Mycroft and utterly helpless – finally broke Dr. Martin Holmes.

He sobbed, very nearly alone in the front seat of his car, unable to move, even after the traffic light turned green.


	15. FIFTEEN.

The moment Mycroft saw the family car pull into the driveway, Mycroft jumped out from under the treehouse, racing to the driveway to meet his father.

“Dad – thank god –” Mycroft started, already breathless as he approached the driver’s window, ready to explain everything before he even got out of the car.

His father gave his eldest son one look before shaking his head, already unable to bear whatever Mycroft had to say, and Mycroft opened his mouth to try to convince him –

But then he saw the backseat.

“Wait – what –”

He saw Sherlock, home from school hours before he should’ve been, head tipped back as he slept, his nose nearly completely covered in bandages.

“What happened?!” Mycroft cried, now running alongside the car as his father continued to drive, completely ignoring Mycroft. “What happened to him?!”

Dr. Holmes parked the car as Mycroft pressed his palms to the backseat window, fretting over his brother until his father opened the car door.

“Who did that?!” Mycroft demanded.

“He did it, apparently, to himself,” Dr. Holmes replied matter-of-factly, opening the door of the backseat. “Smashed his face into his own desk.”

Sherlock wouldn’t do that – no one in their right mind would do that – unless Sherlock _wasn’t_ in his right mind – unless –

_Possession._

“Okay, Dad – wait, wait – wait, Dad, listen –” Mycroft tried, but his father was having none of it.

“Take his feet,” he ordered instead. “Please, take his feet.”

And Mycroft obliged, taking his brother’s feet as his father hooked his arms under Sherlock’s arms, and together the two hauled Sherlock into the house, and upstairs to his bed.

As they worked together to cover Sherlock up, Mycroft tried again.

“Dad, uh, upstairs… In the attic when you were gone, I went up there and I…” Mycroft started to explain, but how could he possibly explain everything to him? Everything that he saw, everything that he had discovered? How could he possibly explain _the corpse in their attic?_

Having finished covering up Sherlock, Dr. Martin Holmes stood up straight, staring at a space on Sherlock’s wall, not speaking to support or rebut his eldest son.

So Mycroft continued.

“I just – I really need you to go up there and see what I saw,” Mycroft said quickly, trying to keep his composure. He couldn’t cry about this – he couldn’t be hysterical – he needed to be _sane_ so his father would _listen –_ “There’s a body, Dad,” he said, as his father continued to stare at the wall. “Yeah. I mean, I think it’s Mum, I _think_ but I can’t tell because the skin’s all black and she’s all distended but the head is _gone_ –” Mycroft told him, and was unable to keep himself from letting out shuttering breaths as he spoke. “Will you please – I just need you to go and see upstairs –” he begged, before he finally could no longer speak, sobs wracking his body.

As he spoke, his father slowly turned to look at Mycroft, watching one of his sons fall apart as the other slept beside them.

Finally, the man sighed, exiting Sherlock’s room to grab the hook for the attic door. The second he made eye contact with Mycroft again, Mycroft tried his best to continue:

“And then there’s more –” he started, but Martin Holmes cut him off before he could continue.

“You mean more than my wife’s headless body? Of course there is,” he replied sarcastically, before reaching up and opening the attic door for himself, unleashing the flies and the stench upon the house once more.

Once his father had pulled down the ladder and made his assent into the attic, Mycroft dashed from Sherlock’s room back downstairs to the living room, where he had already prepared for this step in his plan. He had moved all the furniture out of the way – clearing a space so he wouldn’t damage anything – had placed a stack of newspaper right by the fire place, and put Eurus’ sketchbook into his coat pocket.

As he heard his father scream, shocked and horrified by what he had found in the attic, Mycroft added newspaper to the fireplace and started a fire.

Once it was lit, Mycroft grabbed the photo album he had dropped by the door on his way in with his father and Sherlock and raced back up to meet his father, now just coming down the ladder from the attic, his face pale as a sheet.

“Jesus – fuck!” he stammered, and Mycroft held out the album to his father.

“Okay, there’s more –”

“What the fuck was that?!” his father asked, gesturing up to the attic, still unable to get past the body enough to join Mycroft where he was. “Why didn’t you call the police?!”

Mycroft shook his head hopelessly.

“The police can’t help us,” he told his father.

“Who the fuck is that up there?” he asked, but Mycroft needed him to move on, just enough to be able explain what was going to happen next.

“Do you remember Irene? My friend whose nephew died?” he asked, stepping closer; wanting to use a different word to describe her but having no idea what term he could possibly use without his father getting dragged off-track again. “She took me to her apartment?”

“It did look like Ellen…” Martin Holmes noted, mind still stuck in the attic.

“Well, listen – she taught me how to do the séance,” Mycroft said, trying desperately to say what he needed to say. “I didn’t even _want_ to, but she brought her nephew back and I _saw_ it and felt it just like you did with Eurus.” He stepped forward, standing next to his father as he placed his hand on the photo album. “Now look – this is Mum’s. Album,” he told him, and opened it up, flipping it to the page that he needed. “Now look here – see this?” he asked, pointing to one of the pictures of Irene in the album. “That’s _her_ , that’s _Irene._ She didn’t even mention knowing Mum and _I’ve_ never met her before, but she approached me – she _consoled_ me! She told me about the séance, and she showed me how. Now look at this,” he went on, speaking quickly as he pointed at a picture of his mother, a picture of her wearing the necklace. “See this symbol? On the necklace, that’s her necklace, right? They’re both wearing it, and they’re wearing it in every. Photo. And look at that pattern! Did you see it up there? _This_ was painted _above the body,_ right? In _blood!”_ he exclaimed, and then, finally, waited for his father to speak.

Dr. Martin Holmes had watched Mycroft carefully as he explained, and Mycroft had hoped, had desperately hoped, that this meant he was listening to his son – that he would finally believe him. But he had barely glanced at the photo album, even as Mycroft pointed out the pictures, and now that Mycroft was looking at him in the eye, he could tell that Dr. Martin Holmes – his father – _still_ didn’t believe him.

“You dug up the grave,” he said finally, very quietly, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“What?” Mycroft breathed, unable to do much else in the face of the accusation.

“All those nights you were pretending to ‘go to the movies’ –”

“You’re not even _listening_ –” Mycroft cried, but his father continued on as if Mycroft hadn’t spoken, his voice still in a terrible, smarter-than-you tone as he voiced his revelation.

“And then the day the cemetery called, I said, ‘oh, I won’t tell him because he’d be worried’ –”

Unable to hear anymore, Mycroft threw the book down in frustration, crying out against his father.

“Oh, goddamnit!” he shouted, turning away for a moment before rounding back on his father. “Listen to me, Dad! I _know_ you don’t trust me and there is nothing I can do about that,” he paused, watching his father’s expression, making sure he was listening before he continued, “but they put a curse on us when we brought Eurus back. We made _pact_ with something!” he exclaimed, gesturing above him – not the attic, but the air around them. “ _Something_ that is in this house – I don’t know what it is but it is after Sherlock!” as he spoke, he stepped closer, pulling the sketchbook out of his pocket, opening it to the most recently filled pages. “I _watched_ these pages fill – _all of them_ are _Sherlock!”_ he cried, flipping page after page, but Martin Holmes didn’t even look at them, this time. “I’m sorry, Dad, I don’t know what I did,” he whimpered finally, closing the sketchbook, his eyes filling with tears at the thought of what he had done. “I don’t know what I did but Sherlock is in danger…and _I_ started it. Now if we destroy this book –” he went on, trying to take his father by the wrist, but Martin Holmes raised his hand, not wanting to be touched. When they met eyes again, Mycroft continued, “– it will take me, too.”

Slowly, Martin Holmes began to walk down the hallway, away from Sherlock’s room and the attic behind them, but Mycroft quickly followed, keeping in step with him as he went on.

“I tried to burn it, I tried, but my arm caught on fire on its own as if I was linked to it because I _am_ linked to it – I understand this, now! Please,” he begged, cutting his father off before he could turn to the staircase, holding the sketchbook between them. “If we don’t destroy this book…” he gestured back to Sherlock’s room, where Sherlock was still unconscious, still sleeping, completely oblivious to the conversation that was going on just outside his bedroom. “…Sherlock will…” he tried, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Oh, god…” The thought of it – the thought of Sherlock – the thought of whatever was trying to get to his brother succeeding in doing so – he couldn’t bear it. He had to save him. “Do you understand?” he asked his father, finally looking back to him, and was met with the same incredulous expression that his father had worn since the moment he started blaming Mycroft for the body in the attic. “We have to do this. Please, please, _please…_ for Sherlock…” he begged, sobbing as he began to make his way down the stairs.

Once he reached the bottom, he looked back up to find that, despite everything, his father had followed. But what else would he have done? He couldn’t stay upstairs forever, not with the body upstairs and not only the house phone to call the police but the only exits of the house existing downstairs.

So Mycroft met him at the bottom of the stairs, speaking to him as he caught up to his eldest son.

“I need you to trust me, Dad. It _needs_ to be me, it’s _my_ fault – it’s my fault –” he repeated, blaming himself for everything – Sherlock and Eurus’ births, Eurus’ death, Sherlock’s insanity – all of it. “I know it’s my fault. Please,” he went on, taking his father by the wrist (and his father had let him this time, which meant all the world to his son) and began leading him to the living room. “Please, I need you to throw it in the fire,” he begged, trying to pass him the sketchbook, but Martin Holmes did not make a move to take the book from him. “Please, I just…I can’t do it, I _can’t_ – I’m just too fucking scared,” Mycroft explained as he picked up the lighter fluid he had previously placed by the entrance to the living room. “But if we don’t do it…” he went on, rounding on his father, making sure that he was still following him, and he was, slowly but surely, “…if we don’t do it, it’s gonna be Sherlock –” he said, going back and taking him by the arm once more, leading him to the living room. “ – it’s going to be him, and it _can’t_ be him, okay? I _know_ this, I know so – just please, please, _please_ –” he begged, full-on sobbing now as the two finally entered the room – the scene of the sacrifice.

He hated making his father do this, making his father kill his son, the story of Isaac and Abraham played out in real life with no happy ending, but he had to ask. He couldn’t do it on his own, not like last time. It would’ve been easier before, when Mycroft’s arm had caught on fire, to just let the flames engulf him, to stop whatever was happening before it could truly come, but now that he knew that tossing the book in the fire would kill him…he couldn’t do it, not even for Sherlock. Not because he was selfish, but because he was too cowardly. However, Mycroft knew his father, and he knew that, in the face of everything Mycroft had done, that it wouldn’t be a difficult act for him. He was planning on removing Mycroft from the family anyway for his insanity and outbursts, and Mycroft knew that – this was a sure-fire way to remove him forever, to ensure that he and Sherlock got the life they deserved after everything Mycroft put them through –

“Dad, please, _please_ understand, Dad, _please_ throw it in the fire…” he sobbed, holding the sketchbook on his father’s chest as they stood before the fireplace. “Please, Dad, take it, _please_ – you gotta do it _–_ ” he begged, and finally, Martin Holmes placed his hands on the sketchbook, sending his son into another fit of tears. “Thank you, thank you – okay, here –” Mycroft went on, opening the lighter fluid and pouring it on the sketchbook, just as he had once poured the paint thinner upon his siblings and himself in a dream –

“Now listen to me – listen to me,” Mycroft said, determined, even through tears. “I’m sorry for everything, Dad – I didn’t want things to be this way, I never – I love you, Dad – I love you so much –” he sobbed, and his father nodded slightly. He knew – he knew, even through everything Mycroft had done – “ – and I love Eurus, and I love Sherlock, so much, and I never wanted them to get hurt –” Mycroft went on, and his father nodded again. “I told him I would fix it, I have to fix it – so please, just –” he then stepped away from his father, gesturing to the roaring fire before them. “– please just throw it in…”

And his father nodded. His father nodded and stepped toward the fire, sketchbook in hand.

He _knew,_ he _understood –_ he knew what Mycroft was trying to do – was _going_ to do –

And so Mycroft stood, trying to take deep breaths, mentally preparing himself for the moment he was set aflame.

This was it. He was going to fix it.

But then his father turned around, shaking his head.

“I’m not gonna do this with you, anymore,” Martin Holmes said finally.

“What?!” Mycroft gasped, taken aback by his betrayal. “No –”

“No, no, it’s not helpful for you.”

Helpful for _Mycroft?_ What about _Sherlock?_ But that was just it: contrary to what Mycroft had thought just moments ago, his father didn’t understand. He never would.

“You are _sick,_ Mycroft. I need to call the police –” he said, but Mycroft wouldn’t hear another word – he couldn’t.

He had to fix it, and if his father wouldn’t help, then Mycroft would just do it by himself.

He cried out, racing for his father and snatching the book from his hands, only having a second to prepare himself for death as he tossed the book into the flames –

But he didn’t catch on fire.

Mycroft spun around at the sound of his father’s screams to find that Dr. Martin Holmes – his father – burst into flames instead.

At the sight of it, Mycroft opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. He was tricked, again, this time by whatever was after Sherlock.

This was too big for him – even he couldn’t fix it, anymore – he couldn’t save Sherlock, not like he thought he could –

All of these emotions spread throughout him, the feelings of despair, of hopelessness, of guilt, of complete and utter defeat against whatever the hell Mycroft himself had unleashed upon this house, and then –

* * *

Sherlock Holmes woke up with a start.

It was dark, but he knew his bedroom anywhere – he was home, and it was night. How did he get here? The last thing he remembered was being in school – not wanting to go to class –

And it hurt to breathe – why did it hurt to breathe?

Slowly, his hands found the source of the pain – his nose – and as he touched the bandages upon his face, it all came back to him.

Trying and failing to pay attention in class –

The sudden jerk of his arm being raised above his head –

His inability to move –

The click that came from _his own mouth_ –

Breaking his nose on his desk –

John Watson’s shocked expression –

Sherlock groaned quietly, his mind racing.

Philip Anderson probably put the video onto Youtube by now, and it was probably getting passed around the school like wildfire –

Sherlock needed to stay home from school tomorrow. His father would surely let him, wouldn’t he?

He glanced out the window to find the warm orange glow of the space heater in Eurus’ treehouse. Mycroft must’ve been sleeping in there, again. Maybe that meant he fixed it? He knew Mycroft; he wouldn’t sleep until he stopped whatever was going on.

Groaning quietly and still feeling unbelievably woozy from whatever the hell had kept him asleep this long, Sherlock lifted his head from his pillow. He needed something for the pain – they had to have something for it, maybe in the bathroom?

“Mycroft?” he called quietly, even though he figured his brother was in the treehouse. But he wouldn’t sleep so far away, not with Sherlock injured, right? Maybe he was in the house? “Dad?”

There was no answer from either party.

What time was it, even?

Ever so slowly, Sherlock brought is body into a sitting position, uncovering himself and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, placing his shoes onto the floor.

Just as he was about to stand up, he heard something – someone running outside – and the motion-sensor floodlights picked up something outside.

Was Redbeard outside?

No – the footsteps were unmistakably human –

At that moment, Sherlock felt a presence behind him. Almost like Eurus’ during the séance, but different, somehow. It was as if someone was watching him…

Sherlock slowly turned around, but there was nothing behind him.

Whatever was going on, whatever had made him raise his hand and stop moving during class, Mycroft hadn’t fixed it.

Whatever it was, it was still in the house.

And the house was too quiet.

Very slowly, careful not to make any noise, Sherlock rose from his bed and made his way out of his bedroom, past the attic and down the hall. As he passed under the attic, he could hear what sounded like a swarm of flies on the other side of the door. Was there something in the attic? He couldn’t investigate it, now.

The door to Mycroft’s room was closed, but the door to his parents’ room – now only his father’s room – was open, so he stepped into the doorway, hoping that someone would be there.

“Mycroft?” he called again, quietly. “Dad?”

The only reply Sherlock got was the sound of a crash from the living room – something heavy falling over – and Sherlock jumped, turning toward the noise automatically. In the silence that followed, he heard a reverb that was slightly familiar to Sherlock – the sound of piano strings – the family piano in the hall had fallen over.

But what had pushed it over?

After weighing the pros and cons of speaking again in his head, Sherlock decided that, if there was someone downstairs, they would’ve probably heard him calling for Mycroft and his father, by now, so he might as well call out to them, too.

“Hello?” he called, and was not surprised by the lack of reply.

Sherlock had no other choice but to let himself be led to the source of the noise.

“Mycroft?” he called once more as he made his way downstairs, finding the pushed-over piano in the hall, just as he had expected.

He needed his father – he needed Mycroft – he needed one of them to come out and tell him that everything was alright –

He then walked into the main room of the house, where he found –

All of the kitchen chairs except for one lying on the floor, the living room carpet rolled up and pushed aside, the rest of the living room furniture pushed to the other side of the room, and then there, in the middle of the floor, lying stiffly before the fireplace, dimly lit by the dying flames –

A body.

Open mouthed, Sherlock stepped toward it. As he got closer, he could tell that it had been once set on fire, its skin charred in places and peeling and raw in others, but most of all –

No –

Even though the face was entirely distorted by the blackened skin, Sherlock knew this body, so well –

He knew the height, the stature, the shoes and the clothes, and, most of all, he knew the final piece of evidence, had seen it so many times throughout his life –

His father’s wedding ring.

This body was not just a body.

This was his father.

Suddenly, tears silently poured down Sherlock’s face as he gasped for air. First his mother, then Eurus, and now his father was killed, and Mycroft was nowhere to be found –

And again he felt the presence of someone watching him, someone just behind him.

Slowly, with tears still in his eyes, Sherlock turned his attention to the door of the living room’s closet, and his eyes found who he could only assume to be the home intruder.

A man, completely naked, standing absolutely still in the closet, smiling at Sherlock and Sherlock alone.

Unable to move, not because he couldn’t but because he was too mortified to even breathe, Sherlock stared back at the man, trying to figure out what could possibly happen next, until –

He heard a thud from the other corner of the living room, and Sherlock whipped around to find the source, half-expecting another naked home intruder, but finding nothing.

Then he heard a scream from behind him, and Sherlock didn’t even have a second to think before he started running.

He knew the scream though – he knew the voice – he knew who was behind him, and he knew that they were not lucid enough to trust, anymore –

It was Mycroft.

Shouting, Sherlock sprinted out of the living room, past the front door (Mycroft would catch him if he paused to open it), and up the stairs. Mycroft – his brother – the person that, through thick and thin, Sherlock had always loved and always looked up to – chased after him, still letting out a scream that chilled Sherlock’s bones as he heard it.

Both boys raced up the stairs, Sherlock tripping over himself as he reached the hallway, and Mycroft falling after him, trying to reach for his ankles. Despite everything – despite the shock and panic and fear that rattled Sherlock’s being – the adrenaline coursing through his veins forced him to push on, to stand up and climb up the ladder of the attic –

Wasn’t the attic door closed before?

Sherlock didn’t have didn’t have time to think about it –

Once he climbed up, he pulled the ladder up behind him, tearing it from Mycroft’s hands as his older brother reached up to pull it back down.

And then, finally, Sherlock closed the door on his brother, locking himself in the attic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I was CONVINCED that scene fifteen on the DVD ended with Annie getting possessed and I was so sure and then it ended where it did and I'M JUST UPSET ABOUT IT.
> 
> Anyways: A couple of you might be wondering why this story doesn't just end with Mycroft getting possessed, since Paimon covets a male host and, oh would you look at that? Mycroft's male and he's being a host for Paimon, rn. There's a couple of reasons why the story doesn't end this way:  
> 1) I'm retelling the movie with Sherlock characters; the story doesn't end that way because Hereditary doesn't end that way.  
> 2) As I've previously mentioned, Mycroft is Big Brain, having mentally fought off Paimon before as a child. The book that Annie/Mycroft finds specifically says that Paimon will go for the most vulnerable host, and that CERTAINLY ISN'T MYCROFT. Even though we don't get some big moment where Mycroft successfully fights off the possession once more (maybe we would have if Paimon tried to force him to kill Sherlock because EMOTIONAL BONDS), Paimon probably remembers Mycroft, and knows that the longer Mycroft hosts him, the more likely it is that Mycroft will start to try to fight him off, and if Mycroft does try to fight him off, Mycroft will win, again. Thus, Paimon knows that Mycroft's not his forever home, and he knows that he has to utilize Mycroft's body to break Sherlock down to the point of an easy possession and nothing else.  
> 3) If you've watched the movie (and if you're reading this, YOU BETTER HAVE), you'll know that when Annie goes to try to track down Joan at her apartment to be like "AW FUK MY SEANCE FUKKED UP" and Joan's not there, we see the shrine she's built with Eurus' minatures and Peter's school picture, and then we see the picture of Peter that the cult people put under the body in the attic, so obviously Joan and the cult are focusing on and planning for and making rituals and shrines about PETER being the new host. Translated into the fic, the cultists and Irene are focusing on and planning for and making rituals and shrines about SHERLOCK being the new host. Paimon knows this and he knows who he's supposed to hone in on, and it AIN'T MYCROFT. If Paimon just made Mycroft his forever home at this point it would kind of be like an airplane landing at the dairy farm next door to the airport, just because it's like a mile or so closer. Like the runway we built for you was RIGHT THERE, wtf?!  
> So that's why Paimon hasn't made Mycroft his forever home. He's the summer home. THE MIDSOMMAR HOME (I'm hilarious).


	16. SIXTEEN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS STILL HALLOWEEN NIGHT WHEN I POSTED THIS - IT'S 11:43 PM EASTERN STANDARD TIME GDI I MADE THE DEADLINE!

The second the attic door was closed and locked, a rapid knocking filled the attic, like Mycroft had dragged a ladder over and was banging on the ceiling.

But Mycroft hadn’t done that, and Sherlock knew it –

So how was he knocking?

“Stop! Mycroft, PLEASE STOP!” Sherlock shouted over the knocking, begging his brother, trying to get through to him – something or other had always been able to get through to him, before –

But this time wasn’t like any of the other times Mycroft had gotten bad.

This was so much worse.

“MYCROFT, I’M SORRY! Okay?! I’m sorry!” Sherlock sobbed, spit falling from his lip as he shouted at the door. “Mycroft – Mycroft, _please –_ I’m begging you – I’m begging you to stop –” he tried, not even knowing if Mycroft could be reached – could ever be reached again –

And then, just like that, the knocking stopped.

Sherlock gasped, staring down at the door, only now aware of the flies continuously buzzing in his ears.

“Mycroft?” he called out, but he wasn’t even sure what to expect – what to be hoping for –

But Mycroft didn’t reply.

Sherlock knelt by the door for a moment, catching his breath as he thought things over.

Part of him – most of him – believed that Mycroft wasn’t lucid, anymore. Over the past few weeks he claimed that he was lucid – that he was in complete control of his actions and knew what he was doing – and Sherlock believed him, up until now. However, Mycroft wouldn’t have chased Sherlock through the house like that if he was lucid. Maybe it was whatever was happening – the thing that Mycroft said he would stop? What if he couldn’t stop it – what if it killed his father and went after Mycroft? And what was with the naked home intruder?

Oh god – Sherlock left an out-of-mind Mycroft alone with the naked home intruder.

Sherlock took a breath. Maybe Mycroft would hone in on the home intruder, now that Sherlock was unreachable? But what if the naked home intruder tried to attack _him,_ like had probably planned on doing to Sherlock?

Sherlock blinked the thought away before he could think about it too hard. Lucid or not, Mycroft could handle himself, and Sherlock knew that. If he was lucid, he could call the police or hide or out-smart the home intruder. If he _wasn’t_ lucid, though…

Either way, Sherlock was safe, for now; there was no way for Mycroft or the home intruder to get to the attic, even if they tried, unless Sherlock unlocked the door. He just couldn’t leave, yet, not even to get his phone still in his bedroom.

So he would just have to wait things out in the attic, alone, surrounded by the flies and the candles –

Wait, candles?

It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t need the flashlight to see – that he was surrounded by enough lit candles to flood the attic in a warm glow.

The attic door was closed when he left his room to go downstairs, and opened when he ran upstairs again, away from Mycroft.

Sherlock wasn’t alone in the attic, and Sherlock had just locked himself with them.

Shaking, Sherlock slowly rose, eyes scanning the room. There were enough chairs and even an umbrella he could use as makeshift weapons, if it came to it, but he also didn’t see anyone to fight.

He did, however, find what looked like a circle of candles and an outline of a person on the floor in the far corner of the room, like someone had laid down in the attic for months, letting dust settle on them until they got up and walk away.

Slowly, Sherlock quietly approached the corner of the attic, but as he got closer he realized that the outline – that the person in the attic that had decided to lay there and collect dust – did not have a head.

And in the middle of the outline – as if the person had decided to lay upon it for months – there was a picture. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock’s mouth fell open –

It was a photo _of him,_ his eyes poked out, like someone had stabbed through the photo with a pen –

Sherlock closed his eyes, tightly. This wasn’t real – it couldn’t be real –

He spun away from the picture, gasping for air as he tried not to panic.

His father was dead – Mycroft wasn’t lucid – there was a naked home invader downstairs – _there was someone in the attic –_

This was a nightmare. A really, really, _really_ vivid nightmare.

“Just gotta wake up,” he muttered to himself, breathing heavily. “You just gotta wake up. Come on, you’re okay,” he tried, but he was still in the attic – everything was still wrong –

_There was someone in the attic with him –_

“Just wake up. Wake up!” Sherlock snapped at himself, hitting himself in the face – knowing a pinch wouldn’t be enough to wake him, now – “Wake up! Wake up!”

He took a deep breath, his cheek stinging.

Either hitting himself wouldn’t be enough to wake him, or he wasn’t dreaming.

But he had to be – he _had_ to be – this couldn’t be his life – this couldn’t be the world he was living in – he would rather die –

Then he heard a squelching sound, and Sherlock froze, listening carefully, waiting for the moment that –

He heard it again. The same sick squelching sound, and Sherlock struggled to locate it for a moment until –

He heard it again.

How was it coming from _above him?_

As the squelching sound continued every few seconds, Sherlock very slowly lifted his eyes to the ceiling of the attic, to the slanted roof above him, as if already knowing that he didn’t want to see whatever he was about to look at.

And he was right.

Above him, suspended on nothing but air, Mycroft Holmes floated by the roof, blood dripping onto his coat. Unable to speak – unable to move or do anything other than watch his brother – Sherlock quickly found the source of the blood: it was Mycroft’s.

Mycroft Holmes was very slowly dragging a broken piano wire across his neck, spurting blood as each movement cut a new vein or artery.

Mycroft Holmes was sawing his own head off.

Finally, Sherlock’s eyes met Mycroft’s, and Mycroft continued to stare at his brother, wide-eyed.

“Mycroft –” Sherlock breathed, physically and mentally unable to do much else – even too shocked to cry, now – and slowly, Mycroft’s sawing gained speed, until Mycroft was furiously dragging the piano wire back and forth across his neck, letting the friction do most of the work, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock’s the whole time.

Sherlock continued to stare at his brother, completely horrified, until he heard something like a pin drop, and Sherlock broke his concentration enough to follow the source of the new sound.

His eyes immediately landed on three more nude intruders – a man older than the one he had left downstairs and two women – standing causally in the corner of the attic. One of the woman – the oldest between the two – lifted her hand to wave at Sherlock – and he, too shocked to do anything else – shouted wordlessly in reply.

The three people were too close to the attic door for Sherlock to even think about going back the way he came (not to mention the fact that the first naked home intruder was probably still downstairs), so Sherlock made a snap decision, and raced for the attic window, running straight through it.

As he through the glass window and fell through the open air, Sherlock figured that if the impact of the fall killed him, he wouldn’t have to worry about the naked home intruders, anymore –

He wouldn’t have to worry about being an orphan, either –

And suddenly the thought of Mycroft filled his mind – not the mental image of what Sherlock had witnessed in the attic, or the feeling of animosity the two had felt toward each other for years, or even the memory of the paint thinner incident – but of Mycroft himself, the one who had tried to fix everything, the one who had tried to save him, the brother who Sherlock so dearly loved, just as Sherlock hit the ground –

* * *

A minute later, he slowly lifted his head from the patch of dirt and flowers he had landed in.

Turning his head, he saw a body – a headless, floating body – rise up into a treehouse built about fifty feet before him.

He knew this body – didn’t he? It was someone he knew – someone he was close to, perhaps? He couldn’t remember. He just knew the vague feeling of familiarity.

Intrigued, he slowly placed his hands on either side of him, raising himself to his feet, keeping his eyes trained on where he had just seen the body before it disappeared into the treehouse.

He moved his mouth, but not to speak.

_Click._

Feeling drawn to the body – not just the body, but the treehouse itself – he moved, stepping toward the treehouse.

As he walked, closing the distance between himself and the ladder, he turned his head, taking in his surroundings. He knew this place – just as he knew the headless body and the treehouse, but it felt like he had only witnessed it in a dream, before now. There was a house on one side of him, and on the other –

A pile of brown-red fur in a heap on the ground in the dark, an animal sleeping, but too still to be asleep, surely. He felt a connection to the animal, as well. Did he like the animal, once? Did he like the house, or the treehouse, or the body that he felt an attachment to, despite not knowing who it was?

Then, deeper in the woods surrounding the house, he spotted more bodies, standing scattered throughout, staring at him, watching him as he walked. These bodies were different from the first that he saw – firstly, all of them had heads, just as he himself had. Secondly, all of them were nude, while the first body and even the body he possessed were wearing clothes. Perhaps the biggest difference, though, was the fact that he did not feel any sort of attachment to these people, even though they seemed to be watching him with great interest.

No, the only sort of attachment he felt, besides to the animal and the space around him, was to the first body he had seen.

He returned his attention to the treehouse, and the flickering golden light he could see from within the window on the roof.

Once he found the ladder, he climbed up, feeling as if he had not only done it a million times before, but also for the very first time.

The first thing he noticed once his head peeked into the treehouse were more people, seven in all, if he counted right – most of them nude, besides one donning a white robe – these ones were completely still as they kneeled, heads bowed in the direction of the entrance. Again, he felt no connection to these people, but he still climbed into the treehouse, anyway. Once he fully entered the small, one-room treehouse, lit only by the line of candles against the wall, he watched the kneeling people for a moment. They couldn’t be kneeling for him, but they were certainly bowing their heads for something. And what of the headless body, the first body that he had seen?

He slowly turned around, facing away from the kneeling people, and discovered what they were bowing to:

It was a person, almost completely made out of wood. One of the hands was lowered with three fingers extended, and the other held a staff that had another hand at its top, this one pointing at a bird cage that hung from the ceiling of the treehouse. A symbol was carved onto the torso of the wooden person, a symbol that he felt drawn to, just as he had to the headless body he saw. More than that, though, he was also drawn to the head of the wooden person.

The head (wearing a crown, for some reason or another) was made of flesh and bone, although it was rotted black at this point, and the face was mostly crushed. Still, despite the distortion, he felt a pull to the head, like he knew them in another life. Had he known the previous owner of the head? Had the head belonged to the headless body he had seen?

Either way, he found the display intriguing and, for lack of a better word, beautiful. So beautiful that he almost couldn’t stop staring, until he noticed two more bowing people at his feet:

First was the headless body he had seen ascend into the treehouse minutes ago, not only covered in blood but with their blood pooling onto the floor where their head should have been, their blood pouring from their neck. The second person he saw was a new headless body, black with rot, just as the head on the wooden person’s was. He also felt an attachment to this body, as well, but not nearly as strong as the attachment he felt for the first, and even that connection wasn’t as strong as the one he felt for the head on the wooden person.

Slowly, he turned back to look again at the kneeling bodies before him, bowing to the wooden person, feeling no connection to them, at all. Who were they? Why were they here? Why was _he_ here?

Looking for answers, his eyes drifted to the wall of the treehouse, and there he came across only one object of interest: a framed picture of a woman that, even though the body was headless and too rotted to recognize, he instantly knew was the second headless body he had come across. The image of the woman did not match to the wooden person’s head, so now he knew that the head did not belong to anyone in the room.

The frame of the picture was labeled _Queen Leigh_ – he knew that name, somehow – and even though he knew that Queen Leigh was referring to the woman in the picture, he knew that he never used this name with her – he always referred to her by a different name –

He slowly glanced away from the picture, mulling it all over – the headless bodies, the nude bodies, the head on the wooden person, the connection he felt with the place he was in and some of the people he was now surrounded by – in his head, confused as to what part he played in all this.

He barely noticed that one of the bowing people (the woman in the white robe) had stood up until she was placing the crown (the very one that had been on the wooden person’s flesh head) on his head.

Feeling the energy around him change, he looked to his feet again, where the headless bodies had now turned around without making a sound. He could now see maggots as they devoured and made a home in the rotted flesh of Queen Leigh’s gaping neck, and he could now see the twitching fingers of the first headless body he had encountered, the one that he _knew_ the name of but couldn’t place it –

His eyes lingered on the bloody, headless body, and he felt a wave of panic rise up in his chest, eyes beginning to fill with tears –

He knew this person, he _knew_ them –

“Oh, hey, hey. Hey, it’s alright,” the woman in the white robe said from beside him, voice soothing, obviously sensing his panic. His eyes remained glued onto the body before him, though, his mind racing, trying to figure it out – “Eurus…”

Slowly, he tore his eyes away from the bodies before him. He knew this name – he knew this name well, better than he knew Queen Leigh’s. Eurus – this was _his_ name.

Avoiding the woman’s eyes, she went on, voice still so calming in the wake of his confusion:

“…you’re all right, now. You…are _Paimon_ …one of the eight kings of Hell.”

At the sound of the name, something inside of him shifted – he knew this name, too. He knew it like he knew how to breathe, and though he knew he hadn’t been called that name for a long, _long_ time, he knew this name was his, more than he thought Eurus was his.

“We have looked to the Northwest and called you in,” the woman continued. “We’ve corrected your first female body and give you now this healthy male host.”

He knew the identity of the head on the wooden body, now – _that_ was Eurus, who Paimon once was, until recently. He could also feel the presence of whoever’s body he was inhabiting, now – a boy, fighting for control, but he was no match for Paimon, and Paimon knew this well. He could feel the boy screaming something, over and over again – something about a Mycroft. He remembered Mycroft – he remembered fighting for control of _his_ body, long ago, and then finally claiming it, recently, as well. He knew Mycroft’s will though – he didn’t inhabit him, long…

As these memories flooded back to Paimon, the woman went on, unbeknownst of the revelations that were taking place within his head:

“We reject the Trinity and pray devoutly to you, great Paimon. Give us your knowledge of all secret things. Bring us honor, wealth, and good familiars. Bind all men to our will, as we have bound ourselves for now and ever to yours.”

Still reeling, Paimon didn’t notice as the woman knelt back down until the woman shouted into the wood of the treehouse floor in front of her.

“Hail, Paimon!” she shouted, and the rest of the living people in the room repeated the phrase after her, leaving Paimon to feel the boy thrash inside of him, to listen and to realize his destiny:

“Hail, Paimon!"

"Hail Paimon!"

"Hail!”

* * *

_I've looked at life from both sides now;_

_From win and lose, and still somehow_

_It's life's illusions I recall._

**_I really don't know life at all._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote at the end is from the song that's played during the credits of Hereditary (Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell), and I chose the line(s) that I felt had most to do with the film and such.
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoyed reading this!! I wanted to do a snippet from Mycroft fighting for control before Paimon makes him saw his head off but I ran out of time/energy/what have you.
> 
> Also, Hail doesn't look like a word anymore. :)
> 
> Happy Halloween!


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